s  — 

omen) 


. , . 

f  :-  .' 


GERALD    HANBURY,    BACHELOR. 


TOO    MANY 

WOMEN 

A    BACHELOR'S 
STORY 


SECOND  EDITION 

NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK    A.    STOKES    COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
FREDERICK   A.  STOKES   COMPANY 


September,  1910 


SRLg 
URL' 


CONTENTS 

MM 

JANUARY 

The   Complete  Bachelors i 

An    Unconventional   Friendship 8 

The  House  Party  at  the   Bellew? 15 

Clive  Massey,  Englishman 25 

FEBRUARY 

A   Citizen  of  Bohemia 33 

Lady  Fullard  plays  the  Part  of  Candid  Friend     .     .  39 

Dulcie  and  Mrs.  Mallow  hold  their  Own     ....  45 

A  Theatrical  Ball 50 

MARCH 

The  Offices  of  the  "Evening  Star" 61 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ponting-M allow  at  Home 66 

Massey  excites  Suspicion — and  justifies  it     ,  70 

The  Correspondence  of  a  Comedy  Queen     ....  78 

Steward  Dines  Out 85 

'APRIL 

Mrs.  Mallow  checkmates 93 

Cynthia  Cochrane  makes  another  Conquest    ....  102 

"A  Young  Man's  Fancy" 113 

MAY 

The  Philosopher  in  Hyde  Park  ........  125 

" East  of  the  Sun,  West  of  the  Moon"    .     .,    ..    ,;    .  133 

Massey  champions  the  Stage      .     .     .     .     .     .-    .    :w  143 

'A  Dialogue  at  a  Dance     .     .     .     «     .-    .     .-,     .     .     .  149 

JUNE 

The  Capture  of  Major  Griffiths ISS 

An  'Actress  Interviewed 161 

Family  Cares !69 

Miss  Audrey  Maitland  goes  to  Royal  Ascot  and  returns  176 


CONTENTS 

PADS 

JULY 

A  Festival  in  Bohemia      .......;..,..  189 

Lords  and  Ladies 197 

The  Major  Married 201 

A  Scene  behind  the  Scenes ,;    .  207 

'AUGUST 

Mrs.  Mallow  is  found  out 221 

The  Parable  of  the  Man  who  did 229 

Romance  and  a  Cricket  Week 235 

SEPTEMBER 

Steward  makes  a  Confession  of  Faith 247 

Ben  Machree  Lodge,  Rosshire,  N.  B 256 

•    George  Burn's  Escapade  at  Dieppe 269 

OCTOBER 

The  Progress  of  Mrs.  Mallow 281 

The  Return  of  Major  Griffiths 286 

The  Green-eyed  Monster  in  Jermyn  Street     ....  294 

A  Crash  in  the  Grecian  Restaurant 300 

NOVEMBER 

Steward  tells  an  Old  Tale 313 

Cynthia  Cochrane  says  Good-by 324 

Back  to  Fleet  Street 331 

Two  in  a  Fog 336 

DECEMBER 

Hanbury  v.  Hanbury,  Rev.  Sturgis  Intervening  .     .     .  347 

The  Plight  of  a  Fiance    .  , 354 

A  Bachelor  Deceased 360 


JANUARY 


Why  do  I  keep  single?  Perhaps  T  love  too  many  women  too 
well, — or,  possibly,  too  many  too  little ! "— JOHN  OLIVER 
HOBBES,  "  The  Ambassador,"  Act  I. 


TOO  MANY  WOMEN 


Too  Many  Women 


JANUARY 

The  Complete  Bachelors — 'An  Unconventional  Friend- 
ship— The  House  Party  at  the  Bellews' — Clive 
Massey,  Englishman 

MARRIAGE  is  a  mug's  game." 
George  Burn  screwed  his  eyeglass  in  with  a 
grimace,  and  crossed  his  feet  on  the  mantelpiece,  as 
though  he  had  said  something  clever.  Archie  Haines 
and  myself  exclaimed  "Hear,  hear!"  We  are  both 
in  the  thirties,  so  we  ought  to  have  known  better.  At 
that  moment  the  maid  entered  with  a  letter. 

"  Another  check  from  one  of  your  Fleet  Street  pals, 
Hanbury?"  asked  Haines  idly.  I  double  the  roles 
of  barrister  and  "  free  lance  "  indifferently,  yet  Haines 
always  talks  as  though  I  had  found  a  gold  mine. 

"  No  such  luck,"  I  replied,  scrutinizing  the  envelope. 
"  It's  from  my  fond  parent.  Excuse  me !  "  and  draw- 
ing out  the  contents  I  read  the  following: 

"  MY  DEAR  GERALD  : 

"  We  were  glad  to  have  news  of  you  and  your  do- 
ings the  other  day,  and  to  hear  that  you  are  making 
progress  in  that  combination  of  law  and  literature 
which  you  call  'your  profession.'  But  your  mother 
and  I  are  getting  a  little  anxious  about  your  future. 
You  show  no  signs  of  settling  down,  although  you  are 
now  at  an  age  when  most  young  men  have  undertaken 


«  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

the  responsibilities  of  marriage,  and  all  tHat  marriage 
means.  (Nothing  would  give  us  greater  pleasure  than 
to  hear  you  had  concentrated  your  wandering  affec- 
tions upon  a  particular  object.  I  don't  mean  that  you 
ought  to  propose  to  the  first  girl  you  meet,  but  I  do 
think  you  should  seriously  contemplate  matrimony. 
I  offer  you  this  intimate  advice  in  your  own  interest. 
The  middle-aged  bachelor  is  a  constant  source  of 
anxiety  to  himself  and  his  friends,  and  I  should  be 
sorry  to  see  you  playing  that  unsatisfactory  role. 
Moreover,  the  wider  interests  of  life  are  not  entered 
upon  until  one  is  married. 

"  Your  mother  is  the  more  concerned  about  you,  as 
she  thinks  she  notices  a  growing  inclination  on  your 
part  to  frivolous  self-indulgence.  Let  me  say  that  I 
don't  quite  share  her  view,  which  is  colored  by  her 
maternal  anxiety,  but  I  do  think  you  want  a  little 
more  ballast  if  your  career  is  to  be  the  successful  one 
we  have  every  reason  to  anticipate  it  will  be.  There 
is  no  better  ballast  than  a  wife. 

"YOUR   AFFECTIONATE   FATHER/' 

"George!  Archie,"  I  said,  as  I  finished  my  private 
perusal  of  the  document,  "  what  clo  you  think  of  this  ?  " 
And  I  proceeded  to  repeat  the  contents  aloud  for  my 
companions'  benefit.  George's  only  comment  on  my 
father's  effusion  was  to  whistle  through  his  teeth,  an 
objectionable  habit  which  does  not  endear  him  to  his 
friends. 

"A  very  proper  letter/'  remarked  Haines.  He  is 
a  stockbroker  and  enjoys  his  little  joke.  "It's  a 
scandal,  Hanbury,  that  you  haven't  long  since  recog- 
nized your  responsibilities  in  the  matter.  You'll  be 
getting  gray-haired  before  you've  found  a  wife." 


JANUARY  3 

"I  shall  be  gray-haired  precious  soon  after  I've 
found  one,"  I  retorted.  "What  about  George, 
though  ?  Isn't  he  to  be  included  in  your  indictment  ?  " 

"  Oh,  George ! "  And  Haines  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "  George's  heart  is  licensed  to  carry  twelve 
inside.  If  Lady  Lucy  and  the  rest  of  them  like  to 
strap  hang  in  his  affections,  it's  no  concern  of  ours. 
You're  a  respectable  and  responsible  member  of  So- 
ciety. George  isn't ! " 

George  smiled  fatuously.  He  positively  reveled  in 
his  infamy.  But  if  once  the  conversation  gets  on 
to  George  Burn  and  his  escapades,  it  has  a  knack 
of  staying  there.  This  time  I  was  determined  it 
shouldn't. 

"  Seriously,"  I  said,  "  must  I  give  up  all  this  ?  " — 
and  I  waved  my  arm  round  the  comfortable  Jermyn 
Street  room  in  which  we  sat,  littered  with  the  trophies 
of  the  bachelor  from  gun  cases  to  pipe  cleaners, — 
"because  my  father  thinks  I  want  more  ballast? — 
Ballast!" 

"You  needn't  swear,  HanEury!"  interrupted 
Haines.  "  Think  what  you  get  in  return ! "  x 

"  Five  foot  four  of  chiffon  and  lace,  and  a  yard  of 
milliner's  bills  every  quarter,"  put  in  George,  roused 
by  the  controversy  from  his  reverie.  "  The  fault  I 
find  with  the  whole  system,"  he  went  on,  "  is  that  one 
never  knows  what  one's  getting.  Put  a  wedding  ring 
on  a  woman's  finger,  and  you  change  her  whole  nature. 
The  simple  little  girl  from  the  vicarage,  who  ought 
to  be  a  model  of  domesticity,  makes  a  bee  line  for  the 
Smart  Set,  while  the  fashionable  young  woman,  who 
is  to  found  a  salon,  and  win  her  husband  a  place  in 
the  Cabinet,  throws  her  curling  tongs  into  the  area, 
and  becomes  a  District  Visitor.  Look  at  Basil ! " 


4  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

"  Poor  old  Basil ! "  Haines'  voice  had  a  reflective 
note  of  melancholy.  "  But  then,  what  could  you  ex- 
pect from  a  fellow  who  thought  all  beautiful  women 
were  good,  and  whose  idea  of  marriage  was  holding 
his  wife's  hand  in  the  spare  time  he  wasn't  showing 
her  off  to  an  admiring  world  at  the  Carlton?  Be- 
sides, Basil  found  his  taste  at  twenty-eight  wasn't 
quite  the  same  as  it  had  been  three  years  earlier,  and 
that  he  had  nothing  in  common  with  his  wife  save 
selfishness  and  ignorance  of  life.  He  wanted  to  dine 
at  home  sometimes,  but  she  didn't.  He  wanted  to  ask 
his  own  friends  to  shoot,  but  she  had  always  filled  the 
house  with  hers.  Her  notion  of  economy  was  to  cut 
short  her  husband's  cigars,  and  dock  his  wine  bill. 
He  thought  he  could  retrench  on  his  wife's  dress  al- 
lowance. As  a  consequence  Basil  lives  at  his  club, 
and  Mrs.  B •  in  her  electric  brougham." 

"  And  the  best  place  for  them,"  I  said,  as  I  got  up 
from  my  chair  by  the  fire,  and  crossing  over  to  the 
American  roll-top  desk  with  its  tangle  of  proofsheets 
and  manuscripts,  that  are  the  heritage  of  the  literary 
man,  proceeded  to  seat  myself  in  front  of  the  neces- 
sary writing  materials. 

"  What  shall  I  reply  to  my  father?" 

George  squirted  some  soda  water  into  a  glass. 
"  Say  his  idea  is  all  rot,  and  that  you  aren't  *  taking 
any.' " 

"  Do  put  your  suggestions  in  English,  and  not 
dialect!" 

George  made  a  fresh  start.  "  My  dear  Dad,"  he 
jdictated. 

I  laid  my  pen  down.  "  If  you  can't  do  better  than 
that,  you  must  leave  it  to  Archie.  Archie  ?  "  And  I 
turned  to  where  Haines  lay  stretched  at  ease. 


JANUARY  5 

"What  line  do  you  want  me  to  take?"  that  in- 
dividual asked.  "Tentative  or  abrupt,  a  gentle  toy- 
ing with  the  proposal,  or  a  stern  rejection  ?  " 

"  Please  yourself,"  I  said.  "  Only  don't  be  too 
dramatic ! " 

Haines  cleared  his  throat  and  began: 

"Your  letter  has  come  as  a  great  surprise  to  me, 
but  a  wholesome  one.  I  realize  how  little  I  have  done 
to  deserve  your  affection,  and  how  ill  I  have  requited 
it  by  my  indolence  and  selfishness.  I  see  things  in 
their  true  light  at  last,  and  am  prepared  to  meet  your 
wishes  in  every  way.  'Please  put  up  my  banns  as  soon 
as  possible  with  any  lady  you  like,  and  your  choice 
in  the  matter  shall  be  that  of  your  repentant  son, 
Gerald." 

"  There's  a  model  of  filial  obedience  for  you,"  and 
Haines  looked  at  me  for  approval.  "  Why,  you 
haven't  taken  a  word  of  it  down,  Hanbury !  " 

"  I  could  have  done  better  for  you  than  that,"  ex- 
claimed George. 

"My  dear  Archie,"  I  said,  "if  you  knew  my 
father's  taste  in  the  fair  sex  you  wouldn't  leave  the 
choice  to  him.  Also  you  magnify  my  sense  of  duty. 
I  may  be  thoughtless,  but  I'm  not  qualifying  for  an 
asylum  just  yet.  Try  again  on  the  other  tack." 

Haines  assumed  an  expression  of  pained  solicitude, 
but  he  obeyed. 

"Nothing  could  give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to 
fall  in  with  your  and  mother's  idea.  I  know  I  have 
been  an  unsatisfactory  son  to  you  both " 

"  Haines ! "  I  spoke  sharply.  "  Not  so  much 
stress  on  the  *  unsatisfactory/  if  you  please !  I  don't 
iwant  lessons  from  you  in  how  to  behave  to  my  peo- 


6  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

Haines,  however,  was  wound  up,  and  my  admoni- 
tion passed  unheeded. 

" — and  that  I  have  caused  you  much  anxiety  in  the 
past.  For  the  future,  it  shall  be  my  task  to  do  all  I 
can  for  you,  to  live  within  my  allowance,  to  consort 
only  with  good  companions,  and  generally  to  live  a 
blameless  life.  But  I  regret  I  cannot  obey  you  where 
marriage  is  concerned.  I  was  born  a  bachelor " 

"Who  ever  heard  of  any  one  being  born  anything 
else  ?  "  interrupted  George,  with  an  emphasis  of  scorn. 

" — and  a  bachelor  I  shall  remain,  holding  that  with 
Woman  'distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view/ 
Your  devoted  son,  Gerald." 

I  rose  and  held  out  my  hand  to  Haines.  "  Archie, 
there's  a  fortune  awaiting  you  in  the  East  as  a  pro- 
fessional letter  writer,  but  you're  of  no  use  to  me.  I'll 
do  the  job  for  myself  when  you  and  George  have 
gone." 

"  Answer  the  confounded  thing  in  any  way  you  like, 
Hanbury,"  growled  Haines,  as  the  pair  made  a  con- 
sorted raid  on  my  whisky  and  cigarettes  preparatory 
to  departure.  "  You  might  display  a  little  gratitude, 
anyhow." 

I  held  the  door  open. 

"  I'm  full  of  gratitude  to  you  for  showing  me  how 
not  to  do  it.  If  I  sent  your  precious  letter  I  should  be 
either  married  to  a  female  who  would  have  no 
thoughts  above  following  the  beagles,  or  find  myself 
cut  off  with  a  shilling  as  a  hypocrite." 

"  You  know  nothing  about  diplomacy,"  retorted  the 
retreating  Haines. 

"  You  know  less  about  my  father."  And  the  door 
closed  on  him. 

Then  I  sat  down  again  and  wrote  this : 


JANUARY  7 

"  DEAR  FATHER  : 

"  It's  awfully  good  of  you  and  mother  to  be  so  con- 
cerned about  my  prospects,  professional  and  matri- 
monial. I'm  not  doing  much  in  the  way  of  bar  work 
yet,  as  I  don't  possess  the  influence  or  ability  which 
make  for  success  on  the  part  of  the  briefless  barrister. 
If  I  do  happen  to  meet  the  daughter  of  a  leading  so- 
licitor at  a  dance  or  elsewhere  she's  always  so  plain 
that  I  can't  persuade  myself  to  advance  my  legal  pros- 
pects at  the  expense  of  my  reputation  as  a  man  of 
taste. 

"As  regards  your  advice  that  I  should  'seriously 
contemplate  matrimony,'  I  do  contemplate  it  seriously, 
so  seriously  that  I  can't  undertake  it  for  the  present. 
I've  not  got  the  qualities  to  make  a  woman  happy. 
I  am  too  particular  about  my  meals,  and  I  should  in- 
sist upon  smoking  in  the  drawing-room.  I  should 
hate  to  shatter  any  young  girl's  ideals  of  my  sex.  If 
I  married  an  unselfish  woman,  I'd  make  her  miserable, 
if  a  selfish  one,  she'd  make  me  miserable.  Perhaps 
some  day  I  may  come  across  a  good  and  beautiful  girl 
who  will  look  after  me  as  a  labor  of  love.  I  want 
too  much  supervision  to  marry  any  one  who  doesn't 
fully  realize  the  responsibilities  she  is  undertaking. 

"You  say  I  show  no  signs  of  settling  down.  I 
should  be  false  to  my  ambitions  and  ideals  if  I  under- 
went the  process  of  settling  down  that  most  married 
men  undergo,  the  settling  down  that  one  sees  in  a 
pudding,  into  a  solid  and  indigestible  mass.  I  don't 
want  my  horizon  limited  by  the  four  walls  of  a 
suburban  villa.  I  am  confident  I  can  be  successful  on 
my  own  lines,  but  they  are  not  the  narrow  gauge  of 
married  life.  Of  course,  I  am  prepared  to  admit  that 
my  views  may  undergo  a  change.  At  present  I  am 


S  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

heart-whole,  and  likely  to  remain  so.  When  I  am 
mortally  wounded  in  the  duel  of  sex,  my  outcry  will 
summon  the  only  physician  able  to  effect  a  cure, 
namely  the  rector  of  a  fashionable  church. 

"  Please  impress  upon  mother  that  what  she  thinks 
is  self-indulgence  is  merely  the  necessary  manifesta- 
tion of  the  artistic  life.  You  might  add  that  I  am  al- 
ways on  the  look-out  for  a  cheaper  cigar  than  a  shill- 
ing Upman  that  is  fit  to  smoke,  but  so  far  I  haven't 
been  able  to  find  one. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"GERALD." 

After  all,  there  are  some  things  a  man  does  best 
for  himself.  Whatever  Haines  may  be  able  to  do  in 
the  way  of  "bulling  the  market"  and  "selling  a 
bear,"  he  can't  write  letters. 

•  •  •  »  • 

I  am  beginning  to  think  that  I  haven't  handled  my 
acquaintance  with  Cynthia  Cochrane  with  quite  the 
sure  touch  I  am  accustomed  to  show.  This  morning 
I  got  the  following  note  from  her,  written  with  a 
spluttering  nib  in  her  dressing-room  at  the  "  Alcazar  " 
Theater : 

"  DEAR  OLD  BOY  : 

"  I'm  beginning  to  get  a  wee  bit  angry  with  you  for 
not  coming  to  look  me  up  once  last  week.  I  don't 
like  being  neglected  by  my  friends,  and  especially  such 
an  old  one  as  you  are.  Do  be  a  pal,  Gerald,  and  come 
and  see  me!  I've  had  the  'blues'  lately,  and  you're 
the  best  person  I  know  to  chase  them  away. 

"Yours  with  love  (if  you  want  it), 

"  CYNTHIA/' 


JANUARY  9 

Cynthia  was  with  a  touring  company  at  a  Devon- 
shire seaside  place  when  I  first  met  her  some  nine 
years  ago  now.  I  was  a  member  of  what  was,  in 
Oxford  language,  called  a  "  reading  party,"  but  which 
really  proved  an  association  of  five  undergraduates  for 
golfing,  fishing — anything,  in  fact,  rather  than  for 
the  acquisition  of  sufficient  legal  knowledge  to  pass 
the  examiners  in  the  Honor  School  of  Law.  It  was 
a  windy  morning  on  the  Esplanade,  and  Miss  Coch- 
rane's  hat  blew  off  just  as  she  came  abreast  of  George 
Burn  and  myself,  who  were  sitting  on  the  sea  wall 
discussing  her  points.  The  hat  was  in  a  particularly 
frisky  mood,  and  it  gamboled  and  skipped  down  the 
stone  causeway  as  if  it  were  in  training  for  the  sprint 
at  the  'Varsity  sports.  George  and  I  gave  it  twenty 
yards  start,  and  then  raced  after  it  like  two  gray- 
hounds  slipped  for  the  Waterloo  Cup.  George  pos- 
sessed a  better  turn  of  speed  than  I  did,  but  just  as 
he  reached  the  quarry  it  gave  a  swerve,  and  I  pounced 
on  it  with  such  vigor  that  my  fist  went  through  the 
straw  crown.  What  with  George's  language  and  Miss 
Cochrane's  laughter  when  I  brought  the  wreckage 
back,  I  lost  my  head  and  asked  her  to  come  to  tea 
with  us  as  a  sign  that  I  had  her  forgiveness.  With  a 
friend  she  came,  and  conquered,  and  the  reading 
party  took  five  stalls  for  the  remaining  nights  of  the 
Golden  Belle. 

The  climax  of  our  hospitality  was  reached  by  a 
supper-party  after  the  last  performance  on  the  Satur- 
day, and  for  which  the  local  cellars  and  provision 
merchants'  were  ransacked  for  appropriate  delicacies. 
To  the  hosts,  whose  hearts  glowed  with  a  delightful 
sense  of  Bohemian  abandon,  the  festivity  was  a 
triumph,  unclouded  by  the  landlady's  hair-net  falling 


10  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

into  the  soup  tureen,  or  the  hired  waiter's  partiality 
for  "  bubbly  water,"  indulged  in  behind  the  screen. 
As  for  our  guests,  we  thought  them  peerless,  although 
one  of  the  ladies  was  old  enough  to  be  our  mother, 
another's  complexion  ran  into  crimson  streaks  during 
the  feast,  and  a  third's  conversational  resources  were 
limited  to  an  explanation  why  she  ought  to  have  been 
the  leading  lady,  from  which  position  apparently  some 
"  envious  cat "  had  ousted  her.  I  was  finally  aroused, 
by  her  eternal  iteration  of  this  fact,  to  the  point  of 
telling  her  that  any  one  with  half  an  eye  could  see 
why  she  wasn't  playing  the  "lead."  Thereupon  she 
relapsed  into  silence  for  the  rest  of  the  proceedings. 
We  speeded  the  company  away  at  midday  on  Sunday, 
and  I  was  left  with  a  signed  photograph,  and  a  scented 
lace  handkerchief,  to  mark  the  episode. 

The  mental  stress  of  my  "  Schools,"  and  the  excite- 
ments of  autumn  sport,  drove  recollection  of  the  affair 
from  my  thoughts.  Following  my  golden  rule,  I 
made  no  attempt  to  correspond  with  Cynthia.  I  dis- 
courage casual  correspondence  between  the  sexes  on 
the  ground  that  the  sentiments  on  the  paper  are  never 
interpreted  in  the  sense  in  which  they  were  written. 
I  don't  like  a  girl  reading  between  the  lines,  and  then 
getting  annoyed  because  one's  actions  don't  come  up 
to  her  imaginary  standard.  If  I  have  anything  to  tell 
a  woman,  I'll  unburden  myself  in  speech.  When  I 
write,  "  I'm  so  sorry  I  shan't  see  you  till  Tuesday,  as 
I  am  going  out  of  town,"  it  means  what  it  says,  and 
not  "O  my  darling,  how  the  hours  will  drag  till  I 
gaze  into  your  eyes  once  more."  And  yet  nine 
women  out  of  ten  would  put  the  second  construction 
on  the  simple  sentence  if  one  had  paid  them  any  atten- 
tions. I  repeat  that  I  had  forgotten  about  Cynthia 


JANUARY  11 

till  a  postcard  suddenly  announced  the  end  of  the  tour 
and  Cynthia's  arrival  in  London. 

Since  then  my  acquaintance  has  run  the  normal 
course  of  such  friendships — a  Covent  Garden  ball 
together,  motor  drives  to  the  Metropole  at  Brighton, 
and  the  Star  and  Garter  at  Richmond,  lunches  at  the 
Trocadero  and  Pagani's,  a  never-to-be-forgotten  din- 
ner at  Kettner's  and  suppers  galore.  Cynthia  would  be 
away  for  months  at  a  time  on  a  tour,  undergoing  the 
nerve-destroying  experiences  of  Sunday  train  jour- 
neys from  one  end  of  England  and  Scotland  to  the 
other,  of  incessant  shiftings  of  wardrobes  and  para- 
phernalia from  theater  to  theater,  of  the  discomforts 
of  theatrical  lodgings — but  so  soon  as  ever  she  came 
back  I  would  always  hear  from  her,  and  we  picked  up 
our  friendship  where  it  had  dropped,  the  threads  un- 
raveled by  time. 

Cynthia's  touring  days  ended  eighteen  months  ago 
with  the  securing  of  a  pantomime  engagement  at  the 
Paddington  "  Grand,"  where  the  sale  of  her  picture 
postcards  representing  her  as  Little  Boy  Blue  broke 
all  records.  Her  performance  in  the  character  was  so 
superior  to  the  general  standard  of  "  principal  boys  " 
that  Mason  of  the  "  Alcazar  "  secured  her  on  a  three 
years'  contract,  and  immediately  cast  her  for  an  impor- 
tant part  in  his  "new  and  original  musical  play." 
I  expected  that,  with  the  rise  in  her  fortunes  and  con- 
sequent demand  for  her  company  on  the  part  of  the 
numerous  section  of  society  which  regards  supper 
with  stage  favorites  as  a  form  of  tonic,  I  should  see 
less  and  less  of  Cynthia,  but  with  a  constancy  that  it 
is  unusual  to  find  across  the  footlights,  she  continued 
to  accept  my  invitations,  even  at  the  expense  of  other 
folks'.  The  great  bond  between  the  actress  and  myself 


12  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

is  that  we  take  each  other's  friendship  as  a  matter  of 
course,  our  intimacy  needing  none  of  those  forced 
displays  of  affection  to  keep  it  going  which  so  many 
theatrical  acquaintanceships  require. 

I  have  begun  of  late,  however,  to  notice  a  subtle 
change  in  Cynthia's  outlook  on  the  world.  She  is 
beginning  to  wonder  whether  the  stage  does  not  unfit 
its  votaries  for  family  life.  Usually  so  independent, 
she  now  proclaims  the  fact  that  she  is  tired  of  wander- 
ing about  on  her  own;  ordinarily  so  ambitious,  she 
hesitated  for  a  long  time  before  she  decided  to  sign 
her  contract  with  Mason,  and  gain  the  advertisement 
of  the  "Alcazar."  I  don't  like  those  symptoms,  nor 
the  firm  belief  she  professes  in  platonic  friendship. 
Now,  if  I  am  certain  of  one  thing  it  is  that  such  a 
state  of  suspended  animation  in  the  affections  is  im- 
possible for  men  and  women.  There  can  be  no  stand- 
ing still  in  friendship  between  the  sexes.  Sooner  or 
later  one  of  the  pair  will  cross  the  frontier  dividing 
friendship  from  love. 

It  was  at  the  dinner  at  Kettner's,  served  in  one 
of  the  cabinets  particuliers  for  which  that  famous 
Bohemian  restaurant  is  justly  renowned,  where  the 
soft-tinted  hangings  on  the  walls,  the  antique,  gold- 
embossed  furniture,  and  the  general  atmosphere  of 
mellow  peace  and  seclusion  brooding  over  the  old- 
world  surroundings  fill  the  guests  with  a  sense  of 
curious  expectation,  as  though  of  some  cherished 
secret  of  existence  about  to  be  revealed, — it  was  at 
Kettner's  that  Cynthia  caused  me  serious  embarrass- 
ment by  bursting  into  floods  of  tears  and  sobbing  out 
how  unhappy  she  was.  I  look  upon  the  emotions  of 
theatrical  ladies  as  part  of  the  business — so  much  stage 
thunder — but  a  man's  vanity  is  inclined  to  take  the 


JANUARY  13 

individual  feelings  he  arouses  as  unique  and  lasting. 
Were  a  woman  to  say  that  she  liked  me,  I  should 
believe  she  was  my  devoted  admirer,  but  should 
another  of  my  sex  be  the  object  of  her  avowal,  I 
should  unhesitatingly  call  him  conceited,  if  he  treated 
the  matter  as  anything  more  than  the  lightest  bad- 
inage. Therefore  I  took  the  display  as  a  personal 
compliment,  dropped  the  air  of  amused  and  tolerant 
cynicism  I  adopt,  as  a  rule,  for  my  own  protection, 
and  did  my  best  to  console  Cynthia,  my  sympathy 
taking  the  extremely  ineffective  form  of  stroking  her 
hand  and  telling  her  that  the  waiter  must  not  see  her 
with  red  eyes,  that  a  becoming  hat  was  not  improved 
by  being  crushed  against  a  dress  coat,  and  that  the 
darkest  clouds  have  a  silver  lining — an  irritating 
aphorism  bearing,  by  the  way,  no  relation  to  the  facts 
of  life.  Amidst  the  storm  of  weeping,  I  gathered  that 
nobody  cared  for  her,  that  I  was  very  unkind,  and 
she  wished  we  had  never  met.  I  pointed  out  that  there 
was  no  logical  connection  between  her  premises  and 
conclusion,  also  that  it  was  absurd  to  say  that  nobody 
cared  for  her,  because  I  did.  I  meant  neither  more 
nor  less  than  that.  I  am  quite  fond  of  Cynthia — in 
a  way;  she  is  amusing  and  lively,  with  a  point  of 
view  of  her  own,  her  life  of  independent  exertion 
having  given  her  a  broader  outlook  than  that  pos- 
sessed by  the  insipid  damsels  of  society,  who  relapse 
into  silence  as  soon  as  they  have  exhausted  the  topics 
of  the  ballroom  floor  and  the  latest  engagement.  I 
am  fond  of  Cynthia  in  a  way,  but  not  a  marrying 
way,  merely  one  of  good  fellowship.  Woman-like, 
Cynthia  read  a  good  deal  more  into  my  sympathetic 
efforts,  for  she  took  an  unfair  advantage  of  me  by 
turning  up  her  face  to  be  kissed.  I  believe  I  possess 


14  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

self-control  in  no  slight  degree,  but  it  doesn't  survive 
a  test  such  as  Cynthia  submitted  to  it.  I  give  a  pair 
of  blue  eyes,  a  rosebud  mouth  and  a  dimpled  chin  any- 
thing they  ask.  I  kissed  Cynthia — and  more  than 
once.  After  that  it  was  no  good  protesting  that  I  only 
took  a  fatherly  interest  in  the  welfare  of  a  charming 
young  actress,  so  I  threw  myself  with  zest  into  the 
role  of  an  ardent  lover,  but  it  wasn't  till  next  morning, 
with  a  damp  fog  showing  white  against  my  window- 
panes,  that  I  realized  I  had,  perhaps,  overacted  the 
part 

Since  that  night  I  have  taken  to  seeing  Cynthia  not 
more  than  once  a  week,  on  the  theory  that  "  absence 
does  not  make  the  heart  grow  fonder,"  although  in 
her  case  the  system  can't  be  said  to  have  yielded  satis- 
factory results.  I  object  to  district  messenger  boys 
coming  round  before  I  am  out  of  my  bath  with  frantic 
notes  ordering  me  to  be  at  the  Marble  Arch  in  a 
"  taxi "  at  three,  "  third  tree  from  the  left."  I  don't 
like  to  be  told  to  "hurry  up  with  the  earrings  you 
promised  me,  because  Cissy  is  making  all  the  girls 
green  with  jealousy  over  her  pearl  necklace." 
What's  Hecuba  to  me,  or  I  to  Hecuba  ? 

All  the  same  I  must  settle  up  something,  and 
quickly.  The  worst  is  that,  while  I  can  exercise  com- 
mon sense  over  the  affair  here  in  my  rooms,  that 
quality  is  conspicuous  by  its  absence  when  I  meet  the 
fair  enemy  face  to  face.  Anyhow,  in  my  sober  mo- 
ments I  agree  with  Steward,  my  old  colleague  on  the 
Evening  Star,  who  once  said  to  me  in  a  moment  of 
confidence,  "  Half  the  crimes  and  all  the  follies  of  the 
world  are  due  to  women.  The  chief  advantage  of 
Fleet  Street  is  that  they  are  there  kept  at  arm's  length 
— generally  behind  a  typewriter.  The  only  editor  I 


JANUARY;  is 

knew  who  tolerated  them  compounded  with  his  credi- 
tors for  seven  shillings  and  sixpence  in  the  pound, 
but  he  was  mentally  bankrupt  years  before  he  filed  his 
petition."  George  Burn  holds  similar  views,  but  more 
coarsely  expressed :  "  Women  are  all  right  as  orna- 
ments in  a  drawing-room,  or  for  driving  in  a  hansom 
with,  but  they  are  infernal  nuisances  as  a  perma- 
nency." As  George  has  three  unmarried  sisters  I  dis- 
count his  opinion. 

The  problem  of  my  relations  with  Cynthia  must 
wait.  I  can't  be  bothered  to  do  anything  just  yet 
until  I've  decided  once  and  for  all  whether  I  shall 
change  my  tailor  for  the  fellow  in  Seville  Row  whom 
Haines  recommended.  My  last  tail  coat  was  nothing 
less  than  an  outrage.  Still,  I  might  as  well  run  round 
this  afternoon  and  take  the  little  girl  out  for  a  drive 
to  cheer  her  up.  After  the  good  times  we've  had  to- 
gether, I  mustn't  be  too  abrupt  in  my  behavior  to  her. 
Besides,  her  eyes  have  just  the  shade  of  blue  I  can't 

resist 

•  •  •  •  • 

What  a  pity  it  is  that  there  aren't  more  hostesses 
like  Mrs.  Bellew !  If  there  were,  I  should  never  suffer 
the  agonies  of  doubt  and  hesitation  that  rack  me  when- 
ever I  receive  country-house  invitations,  doubts  as  to 
whether  the  discomfort  of  packing,  traveling,  and  the 
cancelling  of  other  engagements  by  excuses  more  or 
less  ingenious  will  be  compensated  for  by  pleasures 
equal  to  those  I  am  leaving  behind  in  my  flat,  and  the 
dwellings  of  hospitable  cockneys.  But  about  South- 
lands there  can  be  no  misgivings.  From  the  tea  at 
one's  bedside  at  8  A.  M.  till  the  last  "  nightcap  "  be- 
fore turning  in  any  time  after  midnight,  everything 
is  done  that  can  make  the  bachelor  rejoice,  The 


16  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

valeting  is  perfection,  the  bath  is  laid  on  exactly  right, 
the  hot  dishes  and  fresh  toast  at  breakfast  outlast  the 
appetite  of  the  most  voracious,  and  the  appearance  of 
the  most  belated  guest.  There  is  none  of  the  dra- 
gooning of  visitors  in  the  choice  of  the  day's  pro- 
gramme, too  often  indulged  in  from  a  mistaken  sense 
of  hospitality,  so  one  can  shoot,  fish,  ride,  play  be- 
zique,  or  "  kiss-in-the-ring  "  with  equal  freedom.  Old 
Bellew  doesn't  keep  his  best  wine  and  cigars  for  the 
Lord-Lieutenant  and  the  county  bigwigs,  but  puts  '92 
Pommery,  and  Havanas  of  a  crop  which  never  knew 
the  Yankee  and  his  manures,  before  briefless  barristers 
and  newly  gazetted  subalterns.  His  wife  exercises 
equal  generosity  and  taste  in  the  matter  of  the  girls 
she  has  staying  with  her.  When  she  marched  into 
the  Hunt  ball  the  other  night  at  the  head  of  her  forces, 
she  was  followed  by  the  acknowledged  belles  of  the 
evening.  Dolly  Thurston  and  Faith  Bellew  would 
hold  their  own  in  Belgrave  Square,  or  at  the  Ritz. 
Down  in  Loamshire  they  made  all  the  other  women 
look  guys. 

But  the  favors  I  have  received  from  Mrs.  Bellew, 
and  the  favors  I  hope  to  receive,  cannot  blind  me  to 
the  fact  that  there  is  a  serious  flaw  in  her  character, 
which,  in  many  of  my  friends'  eyes,  would  outweigh 
everything  in  her  favor.  She  is  a  matrimonial  harpy, 
and  lives  for  little  else  than  to  find  husbands  for  Faith 
and  Sybil.  Now,  matchmaking  ought  to  require  a 
license  from  the  State,  just  as  much  as  the  carrying 
of  fire  arms,  for  I  fail  to  see  why  a  person  may,  with 
impunity,  wreck  two  lives,  when,  in  the  latter  case, 
carelessness  only  involves  injury  to  an  individual. 
Mrs.  Bellew  finds  an  intrinsic  merit  in  matrimony 
which  justifies  her  in  attacking  the  celibacy  of  every 


JANUARY  17, 

bachelor  crossing  her  threshold,  on  behalf  of  her  two 
"  olive  branches,"  who  might  be  suitably  left  to  grow 
alone  for  a  few  years  before  being  grafted  elsewhere. 
We  owe  more  to  the  gardening  propensities  of  Adam 
and  Eve  than  is  usually  reckoned. 

Faith,  the  eldest  of  Mrs.  Bellew's  girls,  has  the 
sweet  and  unselfish  temperament  which  so  often  goes 
with  brown  eyes  and  a  black  bow  in  the  hair.  A  model 
daughter,  she  is  prepared  to  fall  in  with  any  of  her 
masterful  mother's  plans,  and  take  a  spouse  with  the 
same  unquestioning  belief  in  her  parent's  competency 
and  goodness  of  heart  as  in  nursery  days  she  received 
a  box  of  bricks.  Sybil,  on  the  other  hand,  is  one  of 
those  big,  healthy  girls,  with  a  complexion  that  defies 
the  arts  of  the  toilet  table,  a  manner  that  her  friends 
describe  as  "  bright,"  and  her  critics  as  "  boisterous," 
and  not  an  ounce  of  sentiment  in  her. 

Knowing  Mrs.  Bellew's  methods  I  kept  wide  awake 
the  first  night  at  Southlands,  and  soon  discovered 
from  the  way  in  which  his  hostess  drew  him  to  her 
side  throughout  the  evening,  smiled  sweetly  when  he 
upset  the  mint  sauce  over  her  flowered  silk  at  dinner, 
and  sent  him  into  the  hall  with  Faith  while  the  rest 
of  us  thought  of  something,  "  animal,  vegetable,  or 
mineral,"  that  Major  Griffiths  was  her  prospective 
victim.  The  Major  gave  the  impression  that  he  had 
been  born  with  a  grape  in  his  mouth  and  vine  leaves 
in  his  hair;  not  so  much  from  what  he  said,  though 
that  was  worth  listening  to  after  the  ladies  had  left 
the  room,  but  from  what  he  did  with  the  various  vint- 
ages that  appeared  in  generous  sequence.  He  had 
reached  that  age  when  every  mother  thought  he  was 
bound  to  succumb  to  the  charms  of  her  own  child,  and 
he  was  what  a  Socialist  orator  would  have  called  "  one 


18  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

of  the  idle  rich."  His  fellow  clubmen  were  divided 
on  the  point  as  to  whether  Griffiths  was  single  from 
choice,  or  from  the  disillusionment  of  an  unsuccessful 
affaire  du  cceur  in  his  more  active  and  romantic  days, 
but  whatever  the  cause  which  had  made  shipwreck 
of  his  domestic  ideals,  leaving  him  at  forty-five  a  dere- 
lict, to  the  casual  observer  his  mental  outlook  was 
twofold.  When  he  was  not  engaged  in  thinking  of 
his  next  meal,  he  was  wondering  how  soon  he  could 
get  a  bridge  four  going.  But  Mrs.  Bellew  must  have 
looked  upon  such  a  diagnosis  as  superficial,  or  else  had 
had  the  benefit  of  a  moment's  unguarded  confidence 
from  the  Major  on  one  of  those  occasions,  such  as  tea 
and  hot  scones  after  a  wet  day's  shooting,  or  supper- 
time  at  a  dance,  when  the  soul  of  man  is  expansive 
and  communicative.  She,  at  all  events,  had  no  doubts 
about  her  and  Faith's  capacity  to  capture  that  much- 
assaulted  citadel,  the  Major's  heart. 

Once,  in  the  long  ago,  Mrs.  Bellew  cherished  the 
notion  of  a  hopeless  affection  on  my  part  for  Sybil, 
a  delusion  founded  largely,  I  am  convinced,  on  my 
outspoken  admiration  for  the  latter's  prowess  at  center- 
half  in  a  mixed  hockey  match  against  a  neighboring 
house  party.  Sybil,  still  in  the  school-room,  and  with 
her  hair  flying  wild,  performed  prodigies  of  skill  on 
that  particular  occasion,  and  was  largely  instrumental 
for  her  side's  success,  but  earnest  concentration  has 
failed  to  recall  any  remembrance  that  I  incriminated 
myself  very  deeply,  or  uttered  sentiments  which  could 
have  been  construed  into  a  pledge  in  a  court  of  law, 
even  with  a  jury  of  susceptible  tradesmen  ready  to 
stretch  every  point  of  the  evidence  in  order  to  show 
their  sympathy  with  the  fair  plaintiff.  A  long  course 
of  flippancy  on  my  part,  however,  has  saved  me  from 


JANUARY  19 

having  Mrs.  Bellew  take  the  field  in  force  against  my 
inaction,  because  nothing  is  so  effective  in  counter- 
acting the  schemes  of  matchmaking  chaperones  as  the 
assumption  of  an  air  of  irresponsibility.  The  toils 
that  would  capture  a  lion  are  harmless  to  a  mouse,  and 
the  social  jester  forms  one  of  the  congregation  at  the 
wedding  of  the  man  who  takes  himself  seriously.  But 
on  the  occasion  of  my  visit  last  week  to  Southlands 
for  two  balls,  and  a  third  shoot  through  the  covers,  I 
was  compelled  to  see  a  good  deal  of  Sybil,  even  at  the 
risk  of  "  reviving  old  desires,"  as  Omar  Khayyam 
says,  in  certain  quarters,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
there  was  no  other  young  woman  disengaged  to  re- 
ceive my  attentions.  Griffiths  was  forced  by  the  un- 
obtrusive yet  effectual  surveillance  of  Mrs.  Bellew 
to  dance  attendance  on  Faith  at  a  time  of  life  when 
the  last  thing  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  dance  at  all. 

Dolly  Thurston,  who,  with  her  mother,  Lady  Susan, 
was  also  staying  in  the  house,  had  already  found  a 
kindred  soul  in  Give  Massey,  still  up  at  the  'Varsity 
and  unable  to  resist  the  appeal  which  her  soft  fluffi- 
ness  and  gentle  ways  made  to  his  young  manhood, 
while  he  had  roused  the  girl's  sympathetic  interest 
by  his  recital  of  episodes  from  his  unhappy  and  murky 
past,  a  pastime  in  which  youths  of  such  a  blameless 
type  as  Massey  usually  excel.  Dolly  shared  each 
stand  of  Massey's  during  the  cover  shooting,  played 
his  accompaniments  after  tea,  and  challenged  him  to 
post-prandial  picquet  in  the  quietest  corner  of  the  back 
drawing-room.  When  Lady  Susan  took  it  into  her 
head  to  unburden  herself  of  the  hopes  and  fears  con- 
nected with  the  social  future  of  her  daughter,  I  was 
thoroughly  competent  to  reassure  her  on  that  score. 
As  Lady  Susan  was  short-sighted,  I  didn't  feel  justi- 


20  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

fied  in  spoiling  Dolly's  week  by  supporting  my 
general  proposition  as  to  the  girl's  ability  to  take  care 
of  herself,  with  a  particular  instance.  Lady  Susan, 
for  all  she  talks  about  Dolly,  knows  very  little  con- 
cerning her,  an  ignorance  she  shares  with  several 
worldly  matrons  of  my  acquaintance. 

I  did  my  best  under  the  circumstances  to  please 
everybody.  Sybil  had  supper  and  three  dances  with 
me  at  the  Hunt  Ball,  I  took  her  twice  into  dinner 
without  a  murmur,  and  read  the  Field  from  cover  to 
cover  so  as  to  be  more  fully  equipped  with  topics  of 
conversation  congenial  to  her  cast  of  mind.  In  de- 
fiance of  all  my  natural  instincts,  Massey  was  left  in 
undisputed  possession  of  Miss  Thurston's  society. 
Moreover,  I  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  Major's  appeals 
that  I  should  come  to  his  assistance  and  take  upon  my 
shoulders  a  share  of  those  obligations  which  the 
hostess  had  laid  on  his. 

"  Hanbury,"  he  said  once,  when  he  had  outstayed 
the  others  in  the  smoking-room,  "you'd  enjoy  a  talk 
with  Miss  Bellew ;  she's  no  end  of  a  clever  little  thing." 

"  That's  why  you  are  such  pals,"  I  replied.  "  Op- 
posite drawn  to  opposite." 

Griffiths,  who  had  buried  his  nose  in  his  tumbler, 
turned  a  doleful  face  upon  me  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
draught. 

"I'm  not  a  lady's  man,"  he  remarked.  "Don't 
understand  'em,  or  want  to,  but  I  can't  quite  tell  Mrs. 
Bellew  that.  I'd  take  it  as  very  friendly,  Hanbury, 
if  you'd  play  up  to  the  girl  a  bit,  and  knock  any  ideas 
out  of  the  mother's  head";  and  Griffiths  mopped 
his  fiery  face  with  a  fiery  bandanna. 

I  refused  to  undertake  such  a  task,  not  out  of 
an  unfriendly  spirit  to  Griffiths — for  I  had  the  same 


JANUARY  31 

feeling  for  him  that  I  have  for  a  newly  born  infant, 
genuine  pity  that  such  helpless  innocence  has  been  cast 
on  a  rough  world — but  because  I  was  on  my  good  be- 
havior while  under  Mr.  Bellew's  roof.  His  high 
pheasants  are  not  to  be  lightly  cast  away  out  of  quix- 
otic sympathy  for  one  of  his  wife's  victims. 

As  the  week  dragged  on — I  use  the  word 
"  dragged "  advisedly,  for  "  duty,"  in  spite  of  the 
many  laudatory  attributes  the  evangelists  and  poets 
endow  it  with,  is  essentially  its  own  reward,  no  "  purse 
of  fifty  sovs."  being  added  where  it  is  concerned — I 
wished  myself  back  in  London — London,  which  held 
Cynthia  Cochrane,  George  Burn,  the  Club,  and  all 
the  unhallowed  delights  of  bachelorhood,  and  away 
from  Southlands  with  its  managing  mother,  and  its 
managed  daughters,  Griffiths,  who  drew  the  best  stand 
of  the  best  drive  of  the  best  day,  and  then  missed  the 
rocketing  birds  because  he  felt  so  down  on  his  luck, 
as  he  explained  to  me  later,  Massey,  who  monopolized 
the  really  nice  girl  of  the  party  without  any  regard  for 
his  seniors'  points  of  view.  An  English  country 
house,  "replete  with  every  modern  convenience,"  as 
the  advertisements  describe  it,  and  surrounded  by 
well-stocked  covers,  is  less  than  nothing  if  the  com- 
pany assembled  in  it  is  composed  of  inharmonious 
elements,  and  inharmonious  they  certainly  were  at 
Southlands  last  week.  I  might  have  left  without  a 
single  pleasant  memory  other  than  the  wine  and  cigars, 
had  I  not  on  the  fifth  day,  while  sitting  with  the  rest 
in  the  hall  after  lunch — that  meal  having  been  par- 
taken of  indoors,  owing  to  rain  making  outside  sport 
impossible — taken  occasion  to  draw  attention  to  the 
gloom  on  Major  Griffiths'  face. 

"Did  you    see  a   ghost   last   night?"    demanded 


23  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

Give  Massey.  Ttie  Major  had — the  ghost  of  his  dead 
peace  of  mind — but  no  one  thought  of  that. 

Lady  Susan  surveyed  the  shrinking  soldier  through 
her  lorgnon.  Griffiths  is  a  modest  man,  and  the  inter- 
est he  was  arousing  effectually  seakd  his  lips.  I  was 
minded  to  offer  some  plausible  explanation  of  his 
silence. 

I  turned  to  Lady  Susan. 

"  The  Major  has  a  guilty  conscience.  As  you  make 
your  bed,  so  must  you  lie  upon  it." 

"I  regard  that  remark  as  extremely  indelicate," 
replied  the  lady  so  addressed,  with  hauteur.  "  I  am 
not  accustomed,  Mr.  Hanbury,  to  make  beds." 

"  You  mistake  me,"  I  rejoined  hastily,  and  stumbled 
from  bad  to  worse,  "  I  was  referring  to  the  Major's 
bed." 

"  That  will  do ! "  Laidy  Susan  drew  herself  up  with* 
all  the  frigid  dignity  at  her  command.  "I  am  not 
concerned  in  the  slightest  with  Major  Griffiths'  prep- 
arations for  the  night.  You  have  forgotten  your- 
self, Mr.  Hanbury." 

After  which,  of  course,  I  was  in  disgrace  witH  the 
chaperones.  As  I  might  as  well  be  hanged  for  a  sheep 
as  for  a  lamb — though  there's  not  much  lamb  about 
Lady  Susan — I  became  reckless,  and  started  "  fives  " 
on  the  billiard  table  until  a  sheet  of  plate  glass  had 
been  broken,  and  the  ivory  balls  chipped  in-  several 
places.  Then  I  instigated  the  Major  to  refuse  Faith's 
invitation  to  learn  a  new  Patience,  and  ensconced  him 
peacefully  with  Ruff's  Guide  to  the  Turf,  while  Dolly 
Thurston  and  I  played  cat's-cradle  to  the  huge  dis- 
gust of  Massey,  who  was  too  unsophisticated  to  con- 
ceal his  feelings,  whereas  you  might  put  me  on  the 
rack,  and  I  would  wear  the  same  expression  that  I 


JANUARY  23 

do  at  a  performance  of  Wagner.  But  my  crowning 
indiscretion  came  after  a  dinner  at  which  the  Major 
and  I  broke  all  records  of  joviality,  owing  to  our  being 
temporarily  freed  from  our  respective  encumbrances, 
and  reveling  instead  in  the  smiles,  he  of  Sybil  with 
her  sporting  tastes,  I  of  Dolly,  who  was  punishing 
Massey  for  a  display  of  jealousy  by  appreciation  of  my 
vein  of  humor.  When  the  male  element  was  left  to 
itself  and  Mr.  Bellew's  cigars,  the  Major  mixed  what 
he  called  a  "  stirrup  cup  "  out  of  numerous  liqueurs, 
and  fortified  by  this  I  marched  into  the  hall  at  10.15 
p.  M.  and  proposed  "dark  room,"  a  game  I  have 
never  found  to  fail  as  a  source  of  innocent  amusement. 
It  takes  the  form  of  clearing  the  largest  available  room 
of  superfluous  furniture,  extinguishing  every  ray  of 
light  in  it,  and  then  setting  the  players  in  their  stock- 
inged feet  to  escape  noiselessly  without  being  caught 
by  one  of  their  number,  who  delays  his  entrance  in 
the  first  instance  into  the  room  until  the  others  shall 
have  concealed  themselves  in  any  recess  that  strikes 
the  individual  fancy.  The  last  person  caught  takes 
on  the  duty  of  catcher  in  the  next  round. 

In  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  the  chaperones 
against  so  terrifying  a  form  of  entertainment,  the 
Major  was  appointed  catcher  by  general  acclamation. 
His  heavy  breathing,  as  he  crept  round  and  round  the 
big  central  table  of  the  dining-room,  cleared  of  its 
appointments  for  the  purpose,  in  pursuit  of  a  faintly 
rustling  petticoat,  materially  assisted  the  intended  vic- 
tims. Then  he  could  be  heard  swearing  softly  to  him- 
self as  he  ran  from  the  sideboard  into  a  screen,  and 
thence  cannoned  off  into  the  fire-irons,  and  his  prog- 
ress was  so  audible  that  every  one  eluded  his  clutch 
save  myself,  who  was  preoccupied  with  my  efforts  to 


24  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

solve  the  problem  whose  hand  it  was  I  had  found  my- 
self holding  for  a  brief  period  behind  the  window  cur- 
tains. My  turn  as  catcher  ended  in  disaster  and  dis- 
grace, for  I  adopted  the  original  plan  of  taking  up  my 
position  full  length  under  the  table,  from  which  point 
of  vantage  I  seized  the  first  available  ankle.  There 
was  a  scream  and  a  plunging  noise,  followed  by  a  con- 
fused uproar,  during  which,  with  the  rushing  as  of  a 
mighty  wind,  the  whole  human  contents  of  the  room 
fled  from  all  points  of  the  compass  into  the  hall,  to  be 
met  by  the  hostile  public  opinion  of  the  outraged 
mothers,  since  the  spoil  of  my  ingenuous  tactics  proved 
to  be  Clive  Massey,  who,  taking  advantage  of  the  op- 
portunities offered  by  the  game  to  make  his  peace  with 
Dolly  Thurston,  was  interrupted  by  my  assault  at  an 
inopportune  moment,  and  found  himself  unable  to 
avoid  dragging  her  to  the  ground. 

We  failed  to  clear  ourselves  of  the  suspicions  rest- 
ing on  us,  individually  and  collectively.  Dolly  was 
packed  off  to  bed  like  a  naughty  child,  the  Bellew  girls 
came  under  their  mother's  displeasure  for  no  other 
reason  I  could  see  than  that  they  had  not  given  cause 
for  anxiety,  and  Clive  and  I  were  fixed  with  the  cold- 
est looks,  he  because  he  was  ineligible,  and  I  for  hav- 
ing dared  to  originate  so  compromising  a  game. 
Griffiths  alone  had  indulgence  extended  to  him,  an 
illustration  of  the  irony  of  fate,  since  he,  above  every- 
thing else,  was  anxious  to  get  into  Mrs.  Bellew's  bad 
books  rather  than  endure  the  baleful  geniality,  which 
even  his  slow  intuition  told  him  boded  no  good  for  his 
continued  independence.  The  sole  satisfactory  result 
traceable  to  the  night's  doings  was  the  healing  of  the 
breach  between  Massey  and  myself,  an  outcome  of  his 
gratitude  to  me  for  giving  him  a  chance  of  "  letting 


JANUARY  25 

bygones  be  bygones."  I  showed  my  intention  of 
taking  an  interest  in  the  affairs  of  a  sportsman  like 
himself  by  inviting  him  to  look  me  up  in  Jermyn  Street 

on  his  return  to  town. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Clive  Massey  is  one  of  those  fresh,  clean-limbed 
Englishmen,  a  sight  of  whom  makes  one  feel  proud 
to  be  their  fellow  countrymen.  The  product  of  public 
school  and  University,  he  and  his  kind  dance,  shoot, 
and  hunt  through  life  if  the  paternal  income  allows. 
If  it  doesn't,  they  gravitate  into  the  Indian  native  cav- 
alry, or  the  South  African  mounted  police,  or  turn 
their  hands  to  any  job  they  can  find  in  any  country  on 
the  globe.  They  have  few  brains  of  the  quality  en- 
abling them  to  pass  examinations,  and  no  ambitions, 
but  put  them  in  a  tight  place  in  an  outpost  of  civiliza- 
tion, and  they  extricate  themselves,  and  those  depend- 
ing on  them,  with  a  robust  common  sense  and  an  in- 
nate courage  and  resourcefulness  that  only  emerge 
from  beneath  their  stolidity  and  reserve  under  the 
stress  of  danger.  All  the  pedagogues  in  the  length 
and  breadth  of  England,  relying  on  the  arts  and  en- 
ticements of  written  and  oral  questions,  are  powerless 
to  extract  from  Massey  &  Co.  any  knowledge  of  the 
kind  that  would  seat  them  in  Whitehall  at  home,  or 
in  official  posts  abroad.  Commercially  their  virtues 
are  valueless,  imperially  and  socially  they  are  beyond 
price.  Not  that  Massey  will  ever  feel  the  absence 
of  money-making  talent.  He  is  a  ward  of  Chancery, 
with  a  substantial  property  accumulating,  under  care- 
ful and  thrifty  management,  fat  revenues  against  the 
day  when  he  will  come  into  his  own,  and,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  law,  reach  man's  estate. 

I  never  wish  for  a  better  companion  at  dinner  than 


26  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

the  fellow.  He  begins  the  meal  with  enthusiasm,  and 
continues  on  that  note  till  the  end,  unlike  some  men  I 
know  who  get  anecdotal,  morose,  or  sleepy,  when  they 
have  disposed  of  the  last  course.  But  Massey  so  bub- 
bles over  with  la  joie  de  vivre,  et  de  la  bonne  cuisine 
that  he  rouses  the  whole  table  to  action.  He  possesses 
a  healthy  zest  for  amusement,  and  a  frank  enthusiasm 
for  the  enjoyments  that  life  holds  out  to  him,  with  a 
complete  absence  of  that  self-conscious  cynicism  that 
too  often  marks  and  mars  the  Oxford  man.  His  com- 
pany unseats  black  care  from  behind  the  horseman's 
back,  and  drives  misogynists  to  seek  human  friend- 
ship, and  rejected  lovers  to  try  their  fate  again. 

I  speak  from  recent  experience,  because  he  was  my 
guest  only  the  other  night,  having  kept  me  to  the  in- 
vitation extended  casually  at  Southlands  as  soon  as 
he  conveniently  could,  for  I  found,  when  he  turned  up, 
resplendent  in  a  white  waistcoat,  that  he  had  only 
been  in  town  two  days  and  was  due  back  in  Oxford 
on  the  morrow.  He  was  so  eager  to  keep  the  tryst  that 
he  arrived  while  I  was  completing  my  toilet,  but  his 
punctuality  allowed  me  to  take  a  hint  from  his  cos- 
tume, and  discard  the  smoking  jacket  I  had  contem- 
plated for  full  dress.  I  can  read  the  signs  of  the  times 
as  well  as  any  one,  and  Massey's  general  "  get  up " 
spelled  two  words,  and  two  words  only — "The  Em- 
pire." I  know  better  than  to  confine  an  undergraduate 
indoors  after  9.30  p.  M.,  especially  when  his  Alma 
Mater  will  claim  him  within  twenty-four  hours. 

Dinner  provided  the  usual  topics,  the  whereabouts 
of  mutual  friends,  athletics,  sport,  and  musical  comedy. 
Mentally  I  went  back  ten  years  and  saw  myself  again 
as  a  healthy  animal,  determined  to  have  a  good  time 
while  I  was  young,  filled  with  a  vague  and  restless 


JANUARY  27 

curiosity  concerning  the  world  outside  the  University, 
which,  from  the  magic  environment  of  Oxford,  ap- 
peared as  "  through  a  glass  darkly."  The  gray  walls 
and  clustering  pinnacles  of  that  enchanted  city  once 
more  surrounded  me  as  I  listened  to  Massey's  cheerful 
chatter  about  the  chances  of  the  Boat  Race,  the  beauty 
of  the  waitress  in  the  "  Cozy  Corner "  tearooms  at 
Carfax,  the  best  place  to  dine  in  town  for  35.  6d.,  and 
so  on.  He  was  prepared  to  test  any  and  every  thing 
in  his  search  for  what  he  called  "  Life,"  and  I  gradu- 
ally gathered  that  he  thought  I  might  be  instrumental 
in  opening  some  doors  for  him.  I  felt  so  grateful  for 
the  sense  of  lightheartedness  he  inspired  in  me  that 
I  let  him  pursue  his  conversational  thread  unchecked, 
till,  just  when  I  had  brewed  the  coffee  in  a  scientific 
glass  crucible  that  makes  excellent  stuff  when  it  doesn't 
burst  in  the  process,  and  fixed  him  up  with  a  cigar 
about  a  foot  long,  he  remarked  abruptly,  "  I  suppose 
you  know  a  lot  of  people,  Hanbury?  I  don't  mean 
our  sort,  but  actors,  singers,  and  all  that  lot  ?  " 

"I  meet  them  sometimes,"  I  said  carelessly. 

"They're  awfully  interesting,  aren't  they?" 

"  Some  of  them  are  amusing  enough." 

Massey  took  the  plunge.  "  You  might  introduce 
me,  if  you  run  across  any  when  I'm  around." 

"  I'll  do  anything  I  can,  in  my  small  way,  of  course," 
I  replied.  "When  you  mention  actors,  I  conclude 
you  mean  the  female  of  the  species." 

"  Anything  that  comes  along  will  suit  me,"  was 
Massey's  guarded  reply,  but  I  could  see  fie  was 
pleased.  It  was  my  turn  to  cross-examine  him. 

"  You  seemed  to  be  having  a  good  time  at  tfie 
Bellews'.  Miss  Thurston's  attractive,  don't  you 
think?" 


38  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

Miss  Thurston's  admirer  blew  a  smoke  ring,  but 
vouchsafed  no  reply. 

"  She's  supposed  to  be  half  engaged  to  her  cousin/' 
I  went  on,  with  studied  calm.  "  That's  the  worst  of 
relatives,  they  start  at  an  unfair  advantage  with  the 
use  of  the  Christian  name.  It's  to  be  hoped  in  her 
case  the  man  won't  foreclose  on  his  mortgage  just 
yet" 

Massey's  cigar  ash  dropped  on  his  trousers.  Other- 
wise he  displayed  commendable  self-control. 

"  That  yarn's  not  true,"  he  said.  "  Miss  Thurston 
told  me  herself  that  she  had  never  cared  for  anybody, 
and  that  she  would  only  marry  some  one  she  re- 
spected." 

"  You've  known  her  a  long  time  ?  "  I  queried,  with 
a  trace  of  malice. 

"No,  not  so  very  long,"  he  reluctantly  confessed. 
"  In  fact,  I  met  her  at  Southlands  for  the  first  time, 
but  we're  the  best  of  pals  now.  I  don't  take  much  to 
the  mother,  though." 

The  picture  of  the  lover  in  Keats'  "  Ode  on  a  Gre- 
cian Urn  "  rose  before  me.  "  Forever  wilt  thou  love, 
and  she  be  fair!  "  I  quoted  under  my  breath,  with  this 
mental  addition,  "and  like  him  you'll  never  get  any 
forrader,  my  friend."  Massey,  under  the  combined 
influence  of  dinner,  tobacco,  and  sentiment,  had  sunk 
into  reverie,  in  which  doubtless  he  was  rehearsing  the 
role  of  Young  Lochinvar,  a  reverie  which  I  forbore 
to  shatter.  Romantic  dreams  such  as  his  are  too  fra- 
grant and  rare  to  be  lightly  dispelled  by  the  cold 
common  sense  of  the  worldly-wise.  I  could  have  en- 
lightened him  as  to  his  ladylove's  inconstancy  in  the 
past,  and  exposed  the  absence  of  accurate  perspective 
in  her  fancy  picture  of  her  future  husband.  But  I 


JANUARY  29 

refrained.  Instead  I  gave  my  guest  a  quarter  of  an 
hour's  grace,  and  then  took  him  along  to  his  chosen 
music  hall,  where  a  humorous  fellow  on  the  stage  was 
breaking  plates  by  the  score.  The  sight  restored  Mas- 
sey  to  his  true  self ;  he  threw  off  a  gravity  unnatural 
to  him,  and  dragged  me  up  and  down  the  promenade 
during  half  the  ballet,  greeting  everybody  by  their 
Christian  names,  and  generally  behaving  as  though 
he  were  an  admiral  on  his  own  quarter-deck. 

On  our  parting  he  assured  me  I  was  the  best  fellow 
he  had  ever  met,  and  with  the  glow  of  this  unsought- 
for  compliment  warming  the  cockles  of  my  heart,  I 
ended  the  second  stage  of  a  friendship  that  promised 
me  instruction  and  entertainment. 


FEBRUARY 


"  Marriage  is  to  me  apostasy,  profanation  of  the  sanctuary  of  my 
soul,  violation  of  my  manhood,  sale  of  my  birthright,  shame- 
ful surrender,  ignominious  capitulation,  acceptance  of  defeat. 
I  shall  decay  like  a  thing  that  has  served  its  purpose,  and 
is  done  with;  I  shall  change  from  a  man  with  a  future  to  a 
man  with  a  past.  .  .  .  The  young  men  will  scorn  me  as  one 
who  has  sold  out;  to  the  women  I,  who  have  always  been  an 
enigma  and  a  possibility,  shall  be  merely  somebody  else's 
property — and  damaged  goods  at  that;  a  second-hand  man 
at  best." — BERNARD  SHAW,  "Man  and  Superman,"  Act  IV. 


FEBRUARY 

'A  Citizen  of  Bohemia — Lady  'Fullard  plays  the  'part 
of  Candid  Friend — Dulcie  and  Mrs.  Mallow  hold 
their  own — 'A  Theatrical  Ball 

1WAS  having  an  argument  to-day  with  Haines 
about  Bohemianism.  He  said  that  a  Bohemian 
was  a  "  blighter  who  never  washed,  ate  with  his 
fingers,  and  let  his  hair  grow  as  long  as  Samson's." 

Haines  is  a  master  of  forcible  and  picturesque 
speech,  and  as  he  warmed  to  his  work  he  quite  sur- 
passed himself. 

"  I  know  the  fellows,"  he  continued.  "  They  slouch 
about  Soho  with  seedy  squash  hats,  and  seedier  fur 
overcoats  which  they  pinched  from  the  last  doss-house 
they  slept  in,  looking  like  a  mixture  of  Svengali  and  a 
ragpicker.  When  they  feel  hungry  they  drink  absinthe, 
when  they  want  money  they  write  verses,  or  scrape  a 
violin,  with  a  sickly  smile  on  their  unshaven  faces.  I 
always  give  the  chaps  a  wide  berth." 

I  sometimes  think  it's  a  pity  that  Archie  Haines  is 
a  stockbroker,  and  not  a  leader  writer.  In  the  latter 
capacity  he  could  make  any  Minister  of  Government 
uncomfortable  by  the  vigor  of  his  style  and  the  force 
of  his  epithets.  I  told  Haines  that  he  was  merely 
hanging  a  dog  that  had  been  given  a  bad  name,  and 
that  his  picture  was  entirely  insular  and  fantastic. 
Bohemianism,  I  tried  to  show  him,  was  a  point  of 
view,  and  not  a  question  of  dress  or  personal  habits. 
True  Bohemianism  is  a  spirit  of  romance  which  turns 
even  the  ugliest  environment  into  "a  rose-red  city, 

33 


34  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

half  as  old  as  time  " ;  a  sense  of  eternal  youth  gilding 
the  present  and  future  with  the  glow  of  radiant  hope ; 
a  kinship  with  those  who  add  to  the  common  stock  of 
gayety,  and  good  fellowship;  a  standard  of  artistic 
excellence  which  admits  of  no  compromise  in  its  ideals 
— in  short,  a  formula  of  life  and  conduct,  complete 
and  satisfying.  I'm  afraid,  however,  that  Haines  re- 
mained unconvinced. 

What  started  the  discussion  was  the  fact  that, 
lunching  in  "  The  Cock  "  on  Monday,  I  met  Steward. 
After  a  Fleet  Street  crawl  I  had  turned  into  the  old 
place,  settled  myself  behind  one  of  the  oak  partitions, 
ordered  the  steak  and  kidney  pudding  that  the  habi- 
tues called  for,  and  then,  casting  a  look  around  at  my 
neighbors,  had  seen  the  fellow  grinning  at  me. 
Steward  and  I  were  sub-editors  on  the  Evening  Star 
together  for  six  months  in  my  newspaper  days.  In 
appearance  he  is  about  thirty-five  years  old,  small, 
and  pallid  featured,  with  coal-black  hair  falling  in  all 
directions,  piercing  eyes  masked  behind  heavy-rimmed 
spectacles,  and  a  general  air  of  activity  and  determina- 
tion. He  began  life  selling  papers,  got  a  reputation 
as  a  smart  lad,  and  was  put  in  charge  of  the  telephones 
at  a  newspaper  office,  a  job  he  varied  by  fetching  copy 
from  the  reporting  staff  at  the  Law  Courts.  A  night 
school  gave  him  a  fair  grounding  of  knowledge,  which 
he  supplemented  by  voracious  reading  until  he  knew 
the  classical  authors  nearly  by  heart,  and  had  accumu- 
lated a  vast  store  of  general  information.  Then  he 
took  to  bringing  in  articles  of  various  kinds  of  such 
high  quality  that  they  finally  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  editor  in  chief,  who  promoted  him  first  to  the  po- 
sition of  a  reporter,  and  then  to  the  "desk,"  as  a 
sub-editor. 


FEBRUARY  35 

Having  passed  all  his  existence  with  the  smell  of 
printer's  ink  in  his  nostrils,  Steward  had  the  qualities 
of  a  journalist  implanted  in  him,  and  his  quickness  of 
judgment  and  keen  sense  of  the  practical  enabled 
him  to  turn  his  talents  to  the  best  advantage.  He 
did  some  amazing  things  in  the  way  of  "  scoops  " 
while  I  was  his  colleague.  His  headlines  were  mas- 
terpieces of  pithy  compression,  and  he  could  fill  the 
least  inspired  "  copy  "  with  a  sparkle  and  dash  that 
made  it  the  most  attractive  item  on  the  page.  He 
would  scent  in  a  three-line  paragraph  from  an  un- 
known correspondent  the  story  of  the  week.  I  shall 
never  forget  how  one  of  the  other  "subs"  took  a 
telephone  message  about  a  body  being  found  in  a  box 
in  a  London  suburb,  and  was  proceeding  to  make  it 
into  a  small  paragraph,  when  Steward,  whose  atten- 
tion had  somehow  been  drawn  to  the  matter,  pounced 
upon  the  thing  and  from  sheer  instinct  "  splashed " 
the  story  on  the  last  edition,  gave  it  a  bill,  and  sent 
out  two  reporters  posthaste.  Next  day  we  had  an 
exclusive  column  and  a  half  of  what  proved  to  be  the 
criminal  cause  celebre  of  the  year. 

But  above  all,  Steward  never  lost  his  head  in  one 
of  the  unforeseen  crises  that  ever  and  again  disturb 
editorial  method  and  routine,  and  discover  the  weak 
places  in  the  staff's  ability  to  deal  with  emergencies. 
When  a  decision,  in  all  probability  involving  war 
between  England  and  another  Power,  came  unex- 
pectedly into  the  office,  Steward's  coolness  communi- 
cated itself  to  every  one,  from  the  man  on  the  "  stone  " 
to  the  boy  at  the  tape.  He  stopped  the  printing 
machines  on  the  instant,  although  the  elaborate  time- 
table and  organization  for  catching  the  trains  over 
the  country  was  thereby  thrown  out  of  gear,  and  him- 


36  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

self  sent  out,  line  by  line,  to  the  waiting  compositors 
a  masterly  resume  of  the  previous  negotiations,  and  a 
summary  of  what  the  news  meant  to  Europe.  To  the 
wild  messages  that  came  from  the  publishing  depart- 
ment as  to  the  meaning  of  the  sudden  dislocation  of 
the  day's  arrangements,  Steward  gave  replies  that 
admitted  of  no  questioning.  The  prestige  and  cir- 
culation of  the  Evening  Star  alike  profited  by  the 
judgment  displayed.  So  brilliant  a  journalist  as 
Steward  is  certain  to  occupy  an  important  editorial 
chair  before  long. 

But  besides  all  this,  Steward  is  a  Bohemian  to  his 
finger-tips,  by  virtue  of  his  intention  to  live  his  own 
life  untramnreled  by  the  conventional  environment 
beloved  of  Englishmen,  to  which  end  he  creates  an 
atmosphere  of  his  own  in  which  to  "  see  visions  and 
dream  dreams."  A  contemporary  of  mine  at  Oxford 
got  the  reputation  of  being  a  Bohemian  because  he 
usually  sat  in  a  dressing-gown,  drank  Benedictine 
after  "  Hall,"  read  Verlaine,  and  possessed  an  en- 
graving of  the  "  Blessed  Damozel."  Steward  is  not 
cast  in  that  crude  image.  There  is  a  robust  common 
sense  about  his  unconventionally  which  keeps  him 
out  of  the  blind  alleys  of  morbid  introspection,  and 
sensualism,  in  which  so  many  wander  who  profess 
Bohemianism  either  as  an  intellectual  pose,  or  to 
excuse  the  gratification  of  vicious  tastes.  At  his  flat 
in  Chancery  Lane,  in  the  only  club  he  frequents,  "  The 
Savage,"  or  in  the  particular  restaurant  in  Rupert 
Street,  Soho,  where  he  may  be  found  nightly,  Steward 
wears  the  nimbus  of  the  social  saint.  He  radiates  wit 
and  originality,  and  stimulates  even  in  his  silences. 
To  him  no  man  is  common  or  unclean,  and  no  one's 
credentials  for  friendship  are  questioned  who  gives  as 


FEBRUARY;  37 

good  measure  as  he  receives,  and  when  he  is  piped  to, 
dances,  when  mourned  to,  weeps.  The  "  chucker-out " 
at  a  West  End  music  hall,  the  ring  steward  of  an 
East  End  boxing-saloon,  an  Undersecretary  of 
State,  a  cocktail  mixer  in  an  American  bar,  and  the 
author  of  the  most  valuable  copyright  in  Europe,  are 
all  Steward's  friends.  He  is  a  genuine  citizen  of  Bo- 
hemia. If  there  is  a  power  which  can  strike  off  the 
fetters  of  hypocrisy  and  unctuous  virtue  in  which 
Imagination  and  Thought  are  confined,  Steward 
wields  it.  If  there  is  an  antidote  to  the  compound  of 
scandal  and  sport  with  which  Society  poisons  its 
votaries,  Steward  can  supply  it.  His  presence  is  a 
tonic,  and  he  knows  the  haunts  and  companions  to 
banish  dull  care  and  duller  ignorance. 

As  Steward  and  myself  ate  our  steak  pudding  and 
treacle  roll  he  told  me  how  he  had  come  to  write  the 
lyrics  for  the  new  "  Alcazar "  musical  play,  The  Bird 
in  the  Bush,  the  piece,  by  the  way,  in  which  Cynthia 
Cochrane  made  her  debut  under  Mason's  manage- 
ment. One  of  the  journalist's  gifts  is  the  writing  of 
light  verse,  and  the  Evening  Star  rarely  appears  with- 
out a  neat  specimen  of  his  talent  on  a  topic  of  the  day. 
Mason,  always  on  the  lookout  for  fresh  talent  to  keep 
the  sacred  lamp  of  burlesque  burning,  suggested  to 
Steward,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  at  a  Sav- 
age Club  Saturday  night,  that  he  should  try  his  hand 
at  some  of  the  songs  for  the  forthcoming  piece,  and 
so  pleased  was  he  with  the  offspring  of  Steward's 
muse,  that  he  handed  over  the  entire  job  to  my  friend, 
with  the  result  that  the  latter  is  reaping  the  golden 
harvest  which  is  the  guerdon  of  successful  authorship 
in  that  sphere.  The  best  of  Steward's  fancies,  and 
one  which  has  already  captivated  play-going  London, 


88  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

is  the  song  sung  by  the  "  Star  "  to  the  limelight  man. 
It  runs  as  follows: 

In  the  morning  I  am  peevish,  with  my  nerves  all  on  the  jar, 
From  the  shopping  and  the  popping  in  and  out  my  motor  car. 
In  the  afternoon  I've  problems  that  preoccupy  my  mind — 
Is  my  figure  quite  de  rigueur,  are  my  curls  all  right  behind? 
In  the  dusk  a  quiet  rubber  will  my  restless  soul  content; 
What  with  playing  and  with  paying  there's  no  time  for  sentiment ! 
But  at  night  I  move  enraptured  in  your  limelight's  ardent  glare, 
And  my  passion  is  a  fashion  that  I  beg  of  you  to  share. 

In  the  daylight  I  am  thinking  of  my  beauty's  swift  decay, 
And    "  affection  "  and  "  complexion  "  get  in  one  another's  way. 
In  the  twilight  I  am  pensive,  but  it's  not  to  do  with  love ; 
"  Shall  I  dine  in  silk  or  satin  ?  "  is  the  thought  all  thoughts  above. 
In  the  lamplight  I  am  troubled  by  a  lot  of  different  things : 
My  digestion,   Bertie's  question — "Will  you  have  the  furs  or 

rings  ?  " 

In  the  limelight  you  may  sue  me,  for  my  heart's  no  longer  stone. 
If  your  notion  is  devotion,  I'll  be  yours  and  yours  alone. 

At  the  conclusion  a  terrific  crash  indicates  that  the 
object  of  the  appeal  has  thrown  discretion  and  duty  to 
the  winds  and  jumped  down  from  his  perch  in  the 
wings.  A  second  later  a  stage  hand  rushes  frantically 
forward  and  clasps  the  leading  lady  in  an  embrace, 
showing  that  her  infatuation  is  returned.  On  the  first 
night  the  success  of  the  play  was  secured  from  that 
dramatic  moment. 

Another  original  feature  is  the  Limerick  King, 
whose  entrance  is  marked  by  a  ballad  beginning  as 
follows : 

My  name  is  O'Shaughnessy  Brown, 
I  own  a  large  slice  of  the  town. 
My  ample  resources 
Of  motors  and  horses 
Confer  on  me  social  renown. 

I've  a  yacht — tho'  I  can't  stand  the  sea; 
I've  a  wife — tho'  we  never  agree ; 

I've  a  son  in  the  Guards, 

Tho'  his  losses  at  cards 
Would  pauperize  all  men  but  me.  • 


FEBRUARY  39 

The  papers  are  full  of  my  name, 
My  portraits  are  never  the  same: 

I'm  taken  on  Friday 

With  a  duchess  beside  me; 
On  Monday  I  pose  with  Hall  Caine! 

The  gentleman  goes  on  to  tell  how  he  made  his  vast 
fortune  by  winning  limerick  competitions.  The  hold 
that  the  rhyming  craze  has  on  him  is  shown  by  the 
fact  that  he  never  opens  his  mouth  in  the  course  of 
the  play  without  couching  his  remarks  in  the  familiar 
meter  which  has  brought  him  wealth. 

Steward  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  had  had  a 
difficult  task  during  rehearsals  owing  to  the  mutually 
conflicting  views  as  to  the  "  business  "  held  by  Mason, 
the  composer  of  the  music,  and  the  leading  perform- 
ers, male  and  female.  But  Steward  was  determined 
to  have  his  own  way,  and  neither  the  tears  of  the 
ladies,  nor  the  declamations  of  the  men  proved  effect- 
ive in  moving  him  from  the  position  he  took  up. 

Another  item  that  I  gleaned  during  lunch  at  the 
"  Cock  "  was  that  Mason  is  giving  a  Shrove  Tuesday 
dance  for  the  members  of  his  company  to  cheer  things 
up  before  Lent,  and  Steward  wants  me  to  go  as  his 
guest.  I  have  long  since  cut  my  wisdom-teeth  on  the 
Stage  and  its  surroundings,  but  theatrical  "  hops  "  are 
usually  amusing,  and  I  have  a  mind  to  take  Massey 
with  me  and  try  the  "  safety  in  numbers  "  theory  on 
his  present  infatuation  for  Dolly  Thurston. 

People  never  seem  able  to  understand  what  I  do  with 
myself  in  town.  If  a  man  doesn't  follow  a  hall-marked 
profession,  such  as  soldiering,  "  bridge,"  or  driving  a 
motor,  they  always  imagine  that  he  possesses  a  large 
income  and  a  taste  for  dissipation.  When  I  told  Mrs. 
Kyles  that  I  "  wrote  things,"  she  said  "  Really,  how 


40  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

interesting,"  in  a  tone  expressive  of  profound  skep- 
ticism. But  one  must  make  allowances  for  Mrs. 
K — — ,  since  she  has  been  soured  by  her  daughter 
Muriel,  who,  having  "  missed  her  market,"  as  the  say- 
ing is,  has  taken  up  philanthropy  as  an  alternative 
occupation,  and  is  rather  trying  at  home. 

It  did  surprise  me,  however,  that  Lady  Fullard 
should  also  harbor  suspicions  as  to  my  way  of  life. 
Lady  Fullard  is  the  only  one  of  my  people's  friends 
whom  I  have  adopted  as  mine.  Her  house  forms  a 
sanctuary  from  social  creditors,  and  her  astringent 
remarks  act  as  a  tonic  when  my  nervous  system  is  ex- 
hausted by  work  and  worry.  We  mutually  respect 
each  other,  without  having  any  tastes  in  common,  for 
what  interests  can  be  shared  by  two  people  one  of 
whom  ends  her  day  (under  doctor's  orders)  at  an 
hour  when  the  other  is  just  beginning  his? 

"Don't  you  get  very  tired  of  doing  nothing?  "  she 
inquired,  after  having  rather  treacherously  asked  me 
to  tea. 

"You  cruelly  misjudge  me,  Lady  Fullard,"  I  pro- 
tested, "  I'm  a  hard-working  fellow.  Why,  this  week 
I've  done  a  column  on  '  How  to  Crease  Trousers ' 
for  the  fashion  page  of  the  Whirlwind;  '  Delia  in  the 
Cowshed '  for  the  Saturday  Jujube;  and  '  Luncheon 
as  a  Fine  Art '  in  the  Parthenon;  far  more  exhausting 
brain  work,  mind  you,  than  engrossing  deeds  in  a 
solicitor's  office,  or  pretending  at  being  '  something  in 
the  City'  when  one  is  really  nothing." 

Lady  Fullard  did  not  seem  impressed. 

"Writing,"  she  said  in  those  cold,  measured  tones 
that  always  curdle  my  blood,  "  is  merely  another  name 
for  idleness.  What  you  want,  Mr.  Hanbury,  is  to 
find  a  nice,  sensible  girl  and  settle  down.  It's  very 


FEBRUARY  41 

bad  for  a  young  man  to  wait  too  long.  He  gets 
spoiled  and  becomes  unfit  to  make  a  good  husband." 

"  Father "  I  broke  out,  but  checked  myself,  as 

I  realized  that  though  the  voice  was  the  voice  of  Jacob, 
the  hands  were  the  hands  of  Lady  Fullard. 

"  I  am  trying  to  make  myself  worthy,"  I  continued 
nervously,  "  of  that  ordeal — ideal,  I  mean, — but  it  is 
bound  to  be  a  long  process.  I'm  sorry  you  don't  think 
much  of  my  efforts." 

"I've  been  twice  to  the  Savoy  lately,  Mr.  Han- 
bury "  Lady  Fullard  began,  and  my  hopes  beat 

high  that  this  imposing  matron  was  about  to  make  a 
dramatic  confession  of  frailty. 

"  I  understand,"  I  interrupted,  in  order  to  soften  the 
remorse  I  knew  she  must  be  feeling ;  "  but  let  him  who 
is  without  offense  cast  the  first  stone." 

Lady  Fullard  took  no  more  notice  of  my  charitable 
intervention  than  to  repeat  her  words. 

"  I've  been  twice  to  the  Savoy  lately,  and  I've  seen 
you  there  both  times.  Is  that  what  you  call  making 
an  effort?" 

It  took  me  a  minute  to  recover  from  the  shock  of 
Lady  Fullard's  oxymoron. 

"Well,  one  must  accept  some  invitations,"  I  re- 
torted, "  and  the  Thurstons  have  asked  me  so  often." 

"  But  on  the  last  occasion  you  were  alone  with  Mr. 
Haines." 

"  I  was  giving  him  advice." 

"Giving  him  fiddlesticks,"  Lady  Fullard  snorted. 
"There  was  a  Covent  Garden  ball  that  night." 

"  Really,  I  didn't  see  you  there,"  I  said,  with  well- 
simulated  surprise.  "Which  box  were  you  in? 
Surely  you  were  not  the  lady  in  the  black  domino  who 
won  a  prize  for  the  cake  walk?" 


42  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

Lady  Fullard  grew  scarlet. 

"  Sir  John  told  me  what  function  you  were  bound 
for,  Mr.  Hanbury." 

"  Could  you  persuade  him  to  give  a  display  of 
thougfht  reading  at  the  Cripples'  Fete  ?  "  I  queried. 
"  Sir  John  must  have  wonderful  powers  of  second 
sight,  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  look  in  to  see  an 
old  friend  of  the  family.  The  fact  is,  Lady  Fullard, 
I'm  giving  myself  every  opportunity  of  finding  out 
how  unsatisfactory  the  world  is  for  the  unmarried 
man,  and  how  none  of  its  pleasures  can  equal  those  of 
home,  sweet  home.  I  go  to  the  Savoy  in  order  to 
persuade  my  stubborn  bachelor  instinct  that  the  dinner 
there  isn't  half  as  good  as  what  I  might  expect  from 
a  Kensington  cook.  I  pay  a  visit  to  the  stalls  at  a 
musical  comedy  so  that  I  may  see  for  myself  how 
much  nicer  it  would  be  to  spend  the  evening  by  my 
own  fireside  in  a  room  full  of  smoke  from  a  defective 
grate,  and  my  wife  explaining  to  me  how  she  can't 
possibly  dress  on  120  pounds  a  year." 

"  When  a  young  man,"  said  my  hostess,  breaking  in 
on  my  defense,  "who  is  obviously  fond  of  feminine 
society, — you  needn't  pretend  to  be  horrified ! — makes 
mock  of  the  solemnities  of  the  married  state,  it  usually 
means  that  there  is  a  woman  ineligible  for  presenta- 
tion at  Court  occupying  his  attention." 

Lady  Fullard  forestalled  a  violent  outbreak  on  her 
hearer's  part  by  raising  her  hand.  "You  don't  re- 
quire to  protest  your  innocence,  Mr.  Hanbury.  But 
you  can't  go  on  enjoying  yourself  forever." 

Woman's  intuition  is  man's  worst  enemy.  Like  a 
masked  battery  it  makes  his  position  untenable  be- 
fore ever  he  knows  that  there  is  a  foe  about.  For  a 
quick-witted  person,  I  was  fairly  nonplused.  It  was 


FEBRUARY  43 

only  the  thought  of  Cynthia  Cochrane  that  enabled 
me  to  recover  my  self-control. 

"I'm  not  enjoying  myself,"  I  stammered,  "not 
here,  at  any  rate.  I  imagined  you  had  a  better  opin- 
ion of  me,  Lady  Fullard,  than  to  suspect  me  of  such 
conduct  as  you  have  hinted  at,  and  for  which  vicious 
hypocrisy  is  the  only  name." 

To  cover  my  tracks  I  prepared  to  launch  out  on  a 
virtuous  homily.  Lady  Fullard  cut  me  short. 

"  I  suspect  you  of  nothing  that  I  don't  expect  from 
other  men.  You're  all  alike!" 

"You  mustn't  judge  us  all  from  Sir  John's  stand- 
ard," I  said,  determined  to  get  some  of  my  own  back. 

"  I  prefer  not  to  discuss  my  husband."  Lady  Ful- 
lard's  tones  enforced  obedience. 

Sir  John,  for  all  I  knew,  might  have  had  a  blame- 
less past,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  let  his  wife  make  grave 
insinuations  against  myself,  and  then  ride  scathless 
away  on  the  high  horse  of  marital  loyalty  so  soon  as 
reprisals  were  attempted. 

"  It  is  more  Christian,"  I  admitted  sympathetically, 
"  to  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Where  we  cannot  speak 
well  of  a  reputation  we  should  hold  our  tongues  about 
it,  but  I'm  afraid  the  world,  our  world" — I  drawled 
my  remarks  with  luscious  emphasis — "  isn't  so  chari- 
table as  you,  dear  Lady  Fullard ! " 

Lady  Fullard's  hand  trembled  as  she  handled  the 
tea  things.  If  I  had  not  known  she  had  been  well 
brought  up  I  should  have  ducked  to  avoid  the  silver 
kettle  being  flung  at  my  head.  Lest  primeval  instinct 
should  break  through  the  thin  veneer  of  civilization, 
which  is  all  that  separates  any  one  of  us  from  our 
primitive  ancestors,  I  hurriedly  continued — 

"May  I  bring  Mr.  George  Burn  to  see  you?     It 


44  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

would  do  him  so  much  good  to  have  the  benefit  of 
what  you  have  just  been  telling  me — the  bit  about 
scoffing  at  marriage  meaning  a  tea-shop  girl  in  the 
background.  He  stands  particularly  in  need  of  words 
of  warning." 

Lady  Fullard  glanced  at  me  with  baffled  fury. 

"  I  have  heard  of  Mr.  Burn  as  an  idle  young  man 
for  whom  Satan  finds  more  than  the  usual  amount  of 
mischief." 

"  I  don't  know  where  you  got  your  information 
about  Satan  and  his  Unemployed  Scheme,"  I  said, 
with  a  warmth  of  feeling  I  made  no  attempt  to  con- 
ceal, "but  you've  been  totally  misinformed  about 
George  Burn.  He's  the  busiest  fellow  I  know.  Why, 
he  gets  through  more  tete-a-tetes  than  any  three 
bachelors  in  May  fair.  What's  the  matter?" 

The  clouds  of  displeasure  had  lifted  from  Lady  Ful- 
lard's  face,  and  she  was  smiling. 

"One  can't  be  angry  with  you,"  she  began  in  an 
indulgent  voice.  "You're  inimitable.  /  heard  about 
you  at  the  Bellews'." 

"  What  did  you  hear  about  me  ?  " 

"Miss  Thurston  was  telling  me  how  badly  you 
behaved." 

Dolly  Thurston  slandering  me  behind  my  back,  and 
after  I'd  perjured  myself  to  Lady  Susan  by  telling  her 
that  her  daughter  was  really  serious-minded  and  that 
it  was  her  partners  who  were  responsible  for  that 
growing  flightiness  which  her  mother  deplored — Dolly 
who  would  make  a  Trappist  monk  break  his  vow  of 
silence  by  her  naughtiness ! 

"  Miss  Thurston  doesn't  know  what  good  behavior 
is,"  I  said,  with  quiet  dignity,  "and  I  haven't  time  to 
teach  her.  But  I  would  place  no  reliance  on  the 


FEBRUARY  45 

words  of  a  young  lady  who  turns  the  head  of  an 
undergraduate  by  giving  him  six  dances  as  well  as 
supper,  corresponds  with  half  the  subalterns  in  the 
Guards,  and  cries  until  she  is  allowed  a  black  evening 
frock." 

"  You  seem  to  take  a  great  interest  in  Miss  Thurs- 
ton's  affairs,"  was  Lady  Fullard's  comment 

"  I  am  concerned  with  her  moral  character  only,"  I 
replied.  "  I  don't  expect  gratitude,  but  I  did  think 
she  spoke  the  truth." 

Lady  Fullard  made  a  gesture  of  annoyance. 

"I've  no  patience  with  the  young  people  of  to-day. 
One's  as  bad  as  the  other.  Miss  Thurston's  a  flirt 
and  you  are  a  philanderer,  Mr.  Hanbury.  You'll  suit 
one  another  admirably.  Must  you  be  going?  Come 
in  when  you  want  any  more  lectures ! " 

I  had  risen  at  the  moment  that  Lady  Fullard  de- 
livered herself  of  her  amazing  assumption.  I  am 
tolerably  placid  and  amiable,  but  when  the  elderly 
wife  of  a  knight,  whose  sharp  tongue  has  earned  a 
well-deserved  unpopularity,  and  whose  relations  with 
her  husband  are  notoriously  humdrum,  has  the  au- 
dacity to  couple  my  name  with  that  of  a  flighty  and  un- 
truthful minx,  my  patience  is  exhausted.  I  said  good- 
by  to  Lady  Fullard  in  tones  suggestive  of  wounded 
pride.  It  will  take  a  great  deal  more  than  an  invita- 
tion to  tea  to  make  me  darken  her  doors  again. 


The  first  intimation  I  received  that  my  mother  had 
come  up  to  town  for  a  few  days'  shopping,  bringing 
my  sister  Dulcie  with  her,  was  a  note  asking  me  to 
bring  a  man  to  dine  at  the  Craven  Hotel  with  them. 
As  I  am  nothing  if  not  prompt,  I  drew  the  Club  at  tea- 


46  TOO    MANY    WOMEN 

time  and  got  hold  of   George   Burn.      I   thought   it 
would  stimulate  Dulcie  to  meet  the  real  thing  for  once, 
George  being  emphatically  one  of  those  fellows  whom, 
from  some  attraction  indefinable  and  indeed  inexplic- 
able to  the  other  members  of  his  sex,  no  woman  seems 
able  to  resist.     Whether  it  is  that  he  accords  each  one 
of  them  a  deferential  and  admiring  homage  which 
makes  his  acquaintanceship  a  precious  possession,  to 
be  guarded,  if  possible,  from  the  rest  of  the  world, 
whether  he  has  been  granted  an  insight  into  the  mys- 
tery of  the  female  mind  and  moods  which  places  them 
at  his  mercy,  or  whether  it  is  merely  his  good  looks 
and  the  assured  confidence  with  which  he  treats  them, 
at  any  rate  the  fair  creatures  capitulate  to  him  with- 
out any  storming  of  their  defenses  on  his  part  when 
to  most  of  us  they  would  oppose  a  stubborn  resistance 
before  the  siege  was  raised,  and  the   terms    of  sur- 
render concluded.     Perhaps  it  is  that  the  man  strongly 
attracts  women  who  is  himself  attracted  by  them,  be- 
cause George  is  always  in  love,  and  with  two  or  three 
damsels  at  a  time.     How  he  manages  to  prevent  the 
strings  of  his  various  affaires  from  getting  entangled 
I  can't  think.     He  reminds  me  of  a  juggler  who  keeps 
half  a  dozen  glass  balls  in  the  air  simultaneously  with- 
out letting  one  fall.      I  know  for  a  fact  that,  at  the 
present  time,  George  has  romances  with  Lady  Lucy 
Goring,  although  the  Countess  of  Henley  would  have 
a  fit  if  she  knew  of  it ;  Kitty  Denver,  the  latest  heiress 
from  Carlton  House  Terrace,  and  to  marry  nobody 

under  a  duke;  Mrs.  T ,  who  has  separated  from 

her  husband  and  keeps  an  electric  face  massage  estab- 
lishment in  Bond  Street ;  and  the  leading  "  show  girl " 
at  the  "  Firefly  "  Theater,  the  much-sought-after  sup- 
per companion  of  all  the  young  "  bloods  "  who  are 


FEBRUARY  47 

bent  on  taking  the  shortest  cut  to  farming  in  Canada, 
or  an  appearance  in  the  Bankruptcy  Court. 

Dulcie  deserves  all  that  a  brother  can  do  for  her. 
Her  natural  talents  have  lain  fallow  in  the  country 
amongst  the  chickens  and  dead  leaves,  that  is  all,  but 
I  have  noticed  on  several  occasions  an  aptitude  for 
Society  which  should  carry  her  far,  if  opportunity 
were  to  offer.  It  is  because  I  backed  George  to  draw 
out  her  undeveloped  powers  to  the  utmost  that  I  in- 
vited him  to  meet  my  sister  at  dinner.  Sure  enough, 
I  had  no  sooner  introduced  the  pair  than  I  saw  with 
half  an  eye  that  Dulcie  was  going  to  be  as  amiable  as 
she  knew  how,  and  very  sweet  she  can  be  if  she  has 
any  object  to  attain.  When  she  wanted  me  to  take 
her  to  Ascot  last  year,  and  get  her  vouchers  for  my 
club  tent,  she  was  all  sunshine  and  smiles  weeks  be- 
fore. Another  point  in  Dulcie's  favor  is  that  she  al- 
ways does  one  credit,  since  she  has  the  wisdom  to  stick 
to  the  style  that  suits  her,  and  not  to  adopt  an  un- 
becoming mode  of  dress  for  no  other  reason  than  that 
the  Maison  This  and  That  has  decreed  it  shall  be 
"  the  Fashion."  In  a  white  muslin  and  a  sash  Dulcie's 
artless  simplicity  is  far  more  effective  than  if  she  were 
to  adopt  the  expensive  toilettes  of  London  girls.  The 
type  that  goes  about  in  brilliant  taffetas  and  satins, 
and  spread-eagle  hats,  and  puts  great  bunches  of 
osprey  feathers  in  its  elaborate  coiffures  at  night  may 
be  amusing  for  a  bit,  but  in  the  course  of  nine  seasons 
I  have  never  met  a  man  of  judgment  who  contem- 
plated spending  his  life  in  its  company.  He  will  flirt 
and  dance  with  it,  talk  with  it  in  the  Park  on  a  fine 
evening,  and  act  as  its  escort  at  a  race-meeting  or  a 
play,  but  when  it  comes  to  marriage,  he  prefers  the 
maiden  whose  ideals  have  not  been  withered  by  the 


48  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

breath  of  a  London  June,  whose  notion  of  domesticity 
is  other  than  that  of  an  endless  round  of  country 
houses  and  fashionable  restaurants,  and  whose  modest 
extravagance  is  more  in  keeping  with  his  income. 
The  London  bachelor  may  be  self-indulgent,  spoilt, 
cold-blooded — frame  the  indictment  as  strongly  as 
you  like — but  he  has  the  good  sense  to  appreciate  the 
virtues  he  does  not  possess,  to  know  that  a  sinner 
should  not  mate  with  a  sinner,  but  with  a  saint,  and 
that  while  he  will  never  be  browbeaten  and  hen- 
pecked into  affection  and  unselfishness,  he  can  be 
turned  into  a  model  husband  by  innocence  and  devo- 
tion. 

Dulcie,  in  a  pretty  pink  frock,  with  her  dark  hair 
free  from  all  abominations  of  ribbons  and  roses,  was 
an  effective  contrast  to  the  overcurled  and  under- 
dressed  damsels  with  whom  George  spends  his  time. 
From  the  moment  that  I  saw  her  in  the  hall  of  the 
Craven  I  recognized  that  Dulcie  was  quite  competent 
to  hold  her  own,  even  against  such  a  redoubtable  foe  as 
George. 

Besides  ourselves  there  were  the  Ponting-Mallows, 
he  an  old  friend  of  my  people,  a  distinguished  Indian 
official  who  had  risen  to  be  Lieutenant-Governor  of 
his  province,  and  who,  just  before  leaving  India  on  his 
pension,  had  married  a  lively  little  lady  some  thirty 
years  his  junior. 

The  half-guinea  dinner  at  the  Craven  is,  in  my 
humble  opinion,  the  best  in  London.  Mrs.  Mallow, 
in  black  with  silver  round  the  corsage,  and  a  bow  to 
match  half  hidden  in  her  hair,  made  it  seem  better 
than  ever.  I  had  often  heard  her  described  as  "  such 
a  dear,"  though  why  her  own  sex  should  have  des- 
ignated her  thus,  I  couldn't  make  out,  since  it  seemed 


FEBRUARY  49 

*, 

so  much"  more  appropriate  the  phrase  should  come 
from  mine.  Give  a  man  or  woman  a  good  name  and 
canonize  them,  and  for  Mrs.  Ponting-Mallow  the  title 
must  be  a  social  gold  mine,  although  I  suspect  she 
quarries  a  good  deal  besides  precious  metal  out  of  it. 
My  respected  parents  have  always  disapproved  of  her 
— not  for  any  defensible  reason,  but  because  the  lady 
has  too  much  hair  and  too  little  waist — but  Ponting- 
Mallow  has  been  so  lifelong  a  friend  of  theirs  that 
they  have  been  compelled  to  take  the  trimmings  with 
the  joint,  and  risk  social  indigestion. 

Conversation,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term, 
was  really  superfluous  with  Mrs.  Mallow.  She  put 
a  three-volume  novel  into  the  movements  of  her  eye- 
lashes as  she  took  her  soup,  and  the  last  act  of  a  melo- 
drama was  fully  interpreted  by  the  quiver  of  her  lip 
as  she  conveyed  to  me,  under  cover  of  a  babel  of  noise 
from  surrounding  tables,  that  she  was  misunderstood, 
a  fact,  as  I  assured  her,  the  more  remarkable  in  that 
she  had  expressive  eyes. 

"  You  men  are  so  hard  on  us,"  murmured  the  little 
lady,  in  the  particular  undertone  which  is  patented 
for  the  transmission  of  sentiments  to  which  the  reply 
is  prepaid. 

I  took  a  gulp  of  champagne,  heliographed  for  rein- 
forcements, and  replied  that  her  sex  didn't  often  give 
us  the  chance  of  being  tender. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  ?  "  asked  the  lady,  lead- 
ing a  black  suit. 

Catching  her  eye  I  nearly  revoked,  but  managed 
to  discard.  "What  do  you  think?" 

"  That  you  shouldn't  say  such  things  if  you  don't 
mean  them."  Mrs.  Mallow  was  no  novice  at  the 
game. 


50  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

I  had  to  follow  suit  to  the  heart  lying  on  the  table. 
"  I  mean  just  what  you  want  me  to." 

Mrs.  Mallow  trumped  what  I  regarded  as  my  trick 
by  a  deep  sigh. 

Before  I  had  time  to  pay  my  losses,  Mr.  Mallow 
leaned  across  to  his  wife. 

"Julia,"  he  asked,  "where  did  we  get  that  linoleum 
for  the  pantry  ?  "  Evidently  my  mother  and  he  were 
engrossed  in  details  of  household  management. 

Our  cards  were  effectually  scattered.  Still,  as  I 
was  helping  Julia  Mallow  into  her  cloak,  I  arranged 
to  call  and  prescribe  for  her  parrot,  whose  symptoms, 
disquieting  to  his  mistress,  appeared  to  me  to  point 
to  habitual  overfeeding.  I  saw  Mrs.  Mallow  and  her 
husband  into  their  coupe  with  quite  a  sense  of  adven- 
ture, as  I  promised  myself  an  intimate  study  at  close 
quarters  of  an  unusually  fine  specimen  of  the  married 
minx. 

As  I  walked  George  down  to  the  Club  for  a  rubber, 
I  listened  for  five  minutes  to  a  diatribe  on  the  artificial- 
ity of  London  life,  and  the  unsatisfactory  nature  of 
its  female  inhabitants,  ending  with  a  resolution  on 
George's  part  to  settle  down  in  a  hunting  county,  and 
have  done  with  the  place  once  and  for  all.  I  mentally 
marked  up  one  to  Dulcie's  credit,  and  said  "  Yes  " 
and  "No"  as  my  companion's  pauses  and  intonation 
seemed  to  demand  them.  About  Mrs.  Mallow  I  kept 
my  own  counsel.  George's  sense  of  property  is  un- 
developed, and  he  has  a  poacher's  instincts. 


"  MY  DEAR  H , 

"  Mason  will  be  delighted  if  you  will  bring 
your  friend  Massey  along  on  Tuesday.    We  fore- 


FEBRUARY  51 

gather  at  Midnight,   and  our  programme  will 
be  as  follows  — 

12  p.m.     Stirrup  cups. 

12.5     '  The  mazy." 

i.     Refresh  the  inner  man  and  woman. 

Consomme  en  tasse. 

Filets  de  sole  frits. 

Poulets  en  cocotte. 

Cailles. 

G I  aces. 

Cafe  noir. 

Veuve  Clicquot.  1900.    Magnums. 

2.15.  Cake  Walk  Competition,  for  a  diamond 
bracelet  and  gold  cigarette  case,  pre- 
sented by  Arthur  Mason,  Esq.,  J.P. 

2.45.  Speeches  and  thanks  by  the  winner  and 
her  partner. 

2.47.  Loud  and  prolonged  applause  by  the 
audience. 

2.50.  Ejection  of  the  '  gentleman '  who  throws 
rolls  under  the  impression  that  they 
are  confetti. 

3.         'The  Lancers.' 

3.30.  Sweep  up  the  debris,  which  includes  a 
'  transformation,'  four  sets  of  '  pin- 
curls,'  one  lock  of  golden  hair,  one 
black  'ditto/  one  dozen  bunches  of 
artificial  flowers,  one  set  of  false  teeth, 
a  gentleman's  wig,  three  sovereigns, 
a  powder  puff,  two  lace  handker- 
chiefs, and  a  petticoat. 

3.34.     Arrival  of  the  Manager. 

3.34^.  Departure  of  the  Manager. 


52  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

4.  Display  by  the  comedians. 

4.15.     Rival  entertainment  by  the  vocalists. 
4.20.     'Half-time'   called. 
4.30.     Exit  the  Band,  under  protests. 
4.35.     Installation  of  amateur  orchestra,  bril- 
liant execution  of  the  latest  waltz. 

5.  Grand  march  past  and  finale. 

'5.25.     Eggs  and  bacon  at  the    'Junior   Turf 
Club/ 

6.  Bed. 

12  a.m.    Soda-water  and  dry  toast. 

"  Toujours  a  to\, 
"FRANK  STEWARD." 

On  the  strength  of  this  characteristic  epistle,  I 
dragged  Massey  away  for  a  night  from  his  studies  at 
the  University  of  Oxford,  and  chaperoned  him  to  the 
festivity  so  graphically  forecasted. 

Like  Ceylon  in  the  hymn,  a  theatrical  dance  is  a 
place  full  of  "spicy  breezes"  where  "every  woman 
pleases,  and  only  man  is  vile."  But  the  "  Alcazar  " 
show  was  "top-hole."  Mason  had  supervised  the 
general  arrangements  to  some  purpose.  Festoons  of 
colored  lights  hung  across  the  ceiling,  the  corridors 
were  tropical  with  palms,  an  excellent  buffet  stood 
just  off  the  ballroom  piled  with  vintage  wines  and 
the  best  articles  of  diet  in  the  catering  line;  the  finest 
orchestra  in  the  country  sat  on  a  raised  dais,  and,  to 
crown  the  edifice  of  hospitality,  feather  fans  were  pro- 
vided for  the  ladies,  and  buttonholes  for  the  gentle- 
men. Mason  and  his  leading  lady  received  the  guests, 
who  were  the  fine  flower  of  dramatic  and  critical  Bo- 
hemia, with  a  sprinkling  of  the  jeunesse  -doree  of  So- 
ciety and  high  finance. 


FEBRUARY  53 

In  the  throng  was  every  fair  face  that  fills  its  row 
of  stalls  nightly,  and  brings  grist  to  the  mills  of  the 
illustrated  weeklies.  Amongst  the  crowd  of  men  were 
Guy  Ranford,  who  is  building  up  success  as  a  play- 
wright on  his  theory  that  love  is  a  disease  only  to  be 
cured  by  matrimony;  Lord  Matheson,  a  Scotch  peer 
just  of  age,  and  an  earnest  student  of  the  drama  from 
the  level  of  the  stage-box;  Julius  Pryce,  the  noted 
critic  who  tickles  his  paper  with  a  pen  and  it  laughs 
with  a  harvest  of  epigrams ;  and  Stringer,  who  refines 
sugar,  but  hasn't  refined  himself,  and  whose  presence 
could  only  be  explained  on  the  ground  that  as  he 
largely  finances  Mason  he  couldn't  have  been  left  out 
in  the  cold. 

"My  word,  Hanbury,  I'm  your  debtor  for  life/' 
whispered  Massey  to  me,  as  we  made  a  tour  of  inspec- 
tion, clinging  to  each  other  for  moral  support  amidst 
the  blaze  of  youth  and  beauty.  I  steered  him  care- 
fully away  from  the  heroine  of  the  latest  stage  ro- 
mance, who  was  displaying  her  married  charms  in  a 
setting  of  electric  blue,  but  I  had  difficulty  in  repeat- 
ing the  maneuver  when  he  encountered  a  spoiled  dar- 
ling, wearing  flame-colored  chiffon  under  a  net  of 
lace,  who  could  have  mounted  to  any  step  in  the  peer- 
age she  wanted,  and  whom  rumor  said  was  on  the 
point  of  obtaining  £10,000  damages  from  the  heir  to 
a  Marquisate.  Just  when  Massey,  in  his  excitement, 
was  about  to  dispense  with  a  personal  introduction  in 
order  to  secure  himself  a  partner  for  the  next  dance, 
I  ran  across  Drummond,  whom  I  had  scarcely  seen 
since  Oxford  days.  Drummond  had  nearly  broken 
his  mother's  heart  by  throwing  up  his  "  cramming " 
for  the  Diplomatic  Service,  and  joining  a  touring  com- 
pany, in  the  two  years  of  his  association  with  which 


54  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

a  first-hand  acquaintance  with  life  and  a  capacity  for 
sleeping  upright  formed  the  credit  side  of  his  account 
with  destiny.  Now  he  was  filling  a  dude  part  in  The 
Cock  and  the  Hen  at  the  "  Firefly,"  his  not  very  am- 
bitious role  consisting  of  saying  "Ha,  ha!"  in  the 
first  act,  and  doing  a  Gollywog  dance  in  the  last. 
Drummond  lost  no  time  in  introducing  my  exuberant 
companion  to  a  tall  girl  in  a  harmony  of  green  and 
gold  that  stopped  short  at  the  ankles.  Her  impudent 
good  looks  promised  to  keep  Massey  out  of  mischief 
elsewhere. 

In  the  absence  of  Cynthia  Cochrane,  who  was  to 
arrive  in  time  for  supper,  I  contented  myself  with  a 
"dream"  in  black,  whose  dancing  had  all  the  char- 
acteristics of  a  nightmare,  including  the  falling  sensa- 
tion that  precludes  the  awakening,  for  she  caught  her 
foot  in  a  passing  flounce  and  dragged  me  headlong 
to  the  destruction  of  several  yards  of  expensive  fabric, 
and 

"  With  ruin  upon  ruin,  rout  on  rout, 
Confusion  worse  confounded," 

in  the  case  of  other  couples  who  were  involved  in  my 
calamity.  Extrication  of  the  victims  proved  a  task  of 
some  difficulty,  but  it  was  expedited  by  the  kindly 
interest  of  the  whole  assemblage,  which  stopped  its 
various  occupations  of  the  moment  to  assist  in  the 
work  of  rescue,  chanting  the  while  in  uproarious 
chorus  the  well-known  refrain — 

"  You'll  find  about  the  hour  of  four 
'A  tangled  mass  upon  the  floor, 

And  the  sportsman  underneath  is  Archie  1 " 

By  trie  time  I  had  brushed  the  dust  off  my  clothes, 
put  on  another  collar  in  place  of  the  one  upon  which 


FEBRUARY  55 

a  ton  and  a  half  of  human  beings  had  sat  for  what 
seemed  to  be  half  an  hour,  and  generally  made  myself 
once  more  presentable,  Cynthia  had  turned  up,  look- 
ing as  fresh  as  paint  and  as  pretty  as  a  rose,  although 
to  my  annoyance  she  insisted  upon  having  a  dance 
with  Steward,  whose  determination  to  master  every 
accomplishment  in  which  he  was  deficient  was  only 
equaled  by  his  inability  to  keep  any  sort  of  time  what- 
ever, and  his  tendency  to  sudden  attacks  of  giddiness, 
during  which  he  had  to  be  bodily  upheld  by  his  part- 
ner, or  he  would  have  sat  down  there  and  then. 

At  one  o'clock  a  general  rush  was  made  for  supper, 
served  in  the  big  salon  downstairs  at  three  long 
tables.  Steward  had  reserved  places  for  Cynthia  and 
myself  alongside  his,  while  opposite  us  was  Massey, 
still  loyal  to  "  Green  and  Gold,"  and  evidently  finding 
no  obstacle  to  reconciling  his  attachment  to  Dolly 
Thurston  with  a  demonstration  of  affection  toward 
the  favorite  of  the  moment.  Cynthia  and  I  sat  for  a 
moment  spellbound  by  the  crash  of  laughter  and  the 
roars  of  merriment  which  rose  in  a  crescendo  of  sound 
to  the  distant  roof.  Few  gayer  sights  could  be  im- 
agined than  that  presented  by  the  great  hall  lit  by 
every  color  of  the  rainbow,  the  jewels  on  the  prettiest 
necks  in  the  kingdom,  in  spite  of  all  their  glow  and 
luster,  flashing  forth  less  brilliant  lightnings  than  their 
owners'  eyes. 

The  supper  itself  lacked  no  feature  that  might  make 
it  memorable.  The  band  in  the  balcony  with  its 
popular  melodies  sung  in  chorus  by  the  revelers  be- 
low; the  "Widow"  dry  and  iced  to  a  nicety;  the 
quails  with  their  culinary  escort  of  truffles  and  cocks- 
combs; the  crackers;  and  the  paper  hats,  modeled  in 
the  fashions  of  all  ages  and  nations,  which  were 


66  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

brought  round  with  the  dessert,  set  flowing  currents 
of  gayety  and  excitement  that  swept  away  the  canons 
and  conventions  of  the  everyday  world,  till,  at  the 
striking  up  of  La  Mattchiche,  a  personage,  in  the 
helmet  of  a  Roman  legionary,  leaped  on  to  the  table  in 
a  frenzy  of  Bacchic  mirth,  and,  with  one  foot  on  an 
epergne  of  fruit,  and  the  other  in  a  finger  bowl,  did  a 
pas-seul  to  the  envy,  and,  subsequently,  to  the  discom- 
fort, of  his  neighbors.  As  a  climax  Mason  was  en- 
throned in  state  on  the  center  of  the  festive  board, 
while  his  guests  marched  past  him  with  knives,  forks, 
and  spoons  held  at  the  salute. 

Once  back  in  the  ballroom  I  found  myself  forming 
one  of  a  large  group  around  two  young  gentlemen 
who,  each  with  his  hands  clasped  under  a  walking 
stick  passed  across  his  elbows  and  below  his  knees, 
were  engaged  in  the  thrilling  pastime  known  as  "  cock- 
fighting."  The  "  cake  walk  "  competition  which  fol- 
lowed was  the  usual  sort  of  thing,  half  graceful,  half 
grotesque.  Massey  introduced  a  new  figure  by  walk- 
ing on  his  hands,  his  lady  holding  him  by  the  legs, 
but  the  prize  went  to  Drummond  and  his  partner,  the 
pair  accomplishing  a  remarkable  combination  of  skill 
and  neatness.  Drummond's  speech  of  thanks  was 
short  and  to  the  point. 

"Messieurs  et  mesdames,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
fellow-creatures,"  he  said,  "  my  companion  is  tongue- 
tied,  I  am  breathless,  you  are  all  nearly  speechless. 
Art  is  long,  life  is  short,  and  my  powers  of  oratory 
less.  We  thank  you." 

The  Lancers  were  all  that  Steward  had  prophesied. 
I  thought  discretion  the  better  part  of  valor,  and  sat 
out  with  Cynthia,  with  whom  I  should  probably  have 
stayed  till  we  were  swept  out  with  the  crumbs,  had  not 


FEBRUARY  57 

a  pink  shoe  hurtling  past  my  head  broken  the  thread  of 
our  conversation.  I  had  the  presence  of  mind  to 
pocket  it  hastily  as  a  trophy  for  my  mantelpiece,  and 
assume  a  look  of  anxious  innocence  which  turned  the 
band  of  searchers  to  disturb  other  couples. 

I'm  afraid  I  can't  qualify  as  an  efficient  chaperon, 
for  I  failed  on  my  departure  to  find  any  trace  of 
Massey,  save  his  hat,  which  by  inadvertence  he  had 
left  on  a  chandelier  in  the  ballroom. 


MARCH 


"  We  behold  woman  at  work  incessantly.  One  man  is  a  fish  to 
her  hook;  another  a  moth  to  her  light.  By  the  various  arts  at 
her  disposal  she  will  have  us,  unless  early  in  life  we  tear 
away  the  creature's  colored  gauzes  and  penetrate  to  her 
absurdly  simple  mechanism.  That  done,  we  may,  if  we 
please,  dominate  her." — GEORGE  MEREDITH,  "Lord  Ormont 
and  his  Aminta." 


MARCH 

The  Offices  of  the  "Evening  Star"— Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ponting-M allow  at  home — Massey  excites  Suspi- 
cion— and  justifies  it — The  Correspondence  of  a 
Comedy  Queen — Steward  dines  out 

EVER  since  I  introduced  George  to  Steward 
one  night  at  "The  Gourmet"  in  Lisle  Street, 
Soho,  where  we  had  gone  for  a  French  dinner  as  a 
change  from  the  unimaginative  British  menu  at  the 
Club,  he  has  expressed  a  great  admiration  for  the 
journalist,  so  that  it  was  at  his  own  request  I  took  him 
round  yesterday  to  the  offices  of  the  Evening  Star  to 
show  him  Steward  in  his  element. 

I  never  set  foot  in  Fleet  Street  without  regretting 
I  am  no  longer  an  inhabitant  of  that  delectable  land. 
The  very  atmosphere  is  electric  with  enticing  whispers 
for  youthful  hope  and  spreading  ambition.  No  Siren 
could  play  music  half  so  entrancing  to  me  as  the  roar 
of  the  printing  presses  and  the  bustle  and  stir  in- 
cidental to  the  production  of  a  newspaper.  As  we 
climbed  the  stairs  to  the  sub-editors'  room,  the  walls 
shaking  and  the  building  reverberating  to  the  stress 
and  labor  of  the  great  machines  in  the  basement, 
George  merely  remarked  that  he  pitied  the  poor  devils 
who  had  to  pass  their  lives  in  such  a  confounded  din. 
To  me  the  uproar  was  eloquent  with  a  thousand 
memories  of  the  days  when  I  sat  before  piles  of  copy 
— police  court  "  flimsies,"  the  latest  divorce  sensation, 
cuttings  from  the  provincial  Press,  the  unsolicited  con- 

(U 


63  TOO   MANY  WOMEN 

tributions  of  outside  men,  "penny-a-liners"  anxious 
to  increase  their  meager  incomes  by  ungrammatical 
accounts  of  fires,  street  accidents,  and  the  like.  I  saw 
myself  once  more  with  my  coat  off,  my  hair  in  the 
wild  tangle  that  is  the  prerogative  of  the  pressman, — 
by  my  side  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  plate  of  what  was  once 
hot  buttered  toast,  while  the  eight  tape  machines 
round  the  room  clicked  out  eternally  the  news  of  Par- 
liament, the  Law  Courts,  and  Sport  to  my  indifferent 
ears.  With  all  the  strain  and  worry,  the  "  bloomers  " 
that,  in  spite  of  one's  precautions,  found  their  way 
into  print,  and  the  unforeseen  descent  of  the  editor 
in  a  whirlwind  of  vehemence  and  invective,  to  hurl 
over  our  devoted  heads  charges  of  incompetence  and 
threats  of  dismissal,  the  life  was  worth  living.  One 
had  one's  fingers  on  the  pulse  of  the  world.  In  my 
heart  of  hearts  I  knew  that  journalism  is  the  only 
career  that  attracts  me.  There  is  no  other  profession 
in  which  I  would  more  willingly  win  my  spurs. 
True,  the  prizes  are  for  the  few,  and  the  majority  of 
journalists  plod  along  on  modest  incomes  all  their  days. 
But  I  ask  no  editor's  chair  in  which  to  sit  in  lonely 
splendor,  approached  by  my  subordinates  only 
through  the  chill  medium  of  the  telephone,  blue-pen- 
ciling in  my  Olympic  wisdom  their  most  cherished 
flights  of  fancy,  and  crushing  their  dearest  schemes 
of  circulating  enterprise.  Give  me  the  rough  and 
tumble  of  the  fray,  the  tussle  with  the  chief  com- 
positor on  the  "  stone  "  over  the  "  make-up "  of  a 
page,  the  anxious  consultation  as  to  the  story  of  the 
day,  and  what  to  bill  on  the  last  edition !  I  prefer  the 
sunshine  and  shadow  of  the  world  of  men  to  any  twi- 
light of  the  gods. 
'After  my  accounts  of  the  whirl  of  the  journalistic 


MARCH  63 

life,  George  was  rather  astonisHed  at  ttie  Halcyon 
calm  of  the  sub-editors'  room  of  the  Evening  Star,  a 
calm  due  to  our  arriving  between  two  editions.  The 
"  Extra  Special "  was  going  through  the  press,  and 
the  "Late"  had  not  yet  been  embarked  upon.  So 
Steward  had  his  head  in  a  bowl  of  vegetarian  mess 
that  he  had  a  partiality  for,  the  chief  reporter  was 
smoking  a  pipe  in  a  corner,  and  spotting  the  winners 
for  the  next  day's  racing  with  the  sporting  editor, 
while  the  others,  mostly  new  men  since  my  time, 
with  the  exception  of  Woodward  and  Finch,  were 
sprawling  in  various  attitudes  of  relaxation  and  repose 
about  the  room.  A  knot  of  boys,  employed  to  run 
errands,  paste  up  the  tape  messages,  and  carry  copy 
to  the  "  comps  "  and  proof  readers,  were  scuffling  on 
a  long  bench  down  the  far  wall,  until  shouted  at  by 
one  of  the  staff,  when  they  relapsed  into  a  moment's 
tranquillity  before  starting  their  commotion  afresh. 
The  warm  air  was  redolent  of  the  pungent  odors  per- 
meating the  newspaper  office,  and  quivering  with  the 
clatter  of  the  linotypes,  which  came  through  a  thin  par- 
tition like  the  crackle  of  musketry. 

Steward,  who  gave  a  touch  of  local  color  to  the 
scene  by  the  two-days'  growth  on  his  chin,  received 
us  heartily  enough  and  did  whatever  was  necessary  in 
the  way  of  introductions.  The  visitors  to  the  Evening 
Star  sub-editorial  room  are  so  numerous  and  peculiar 
in  the  course  of  the  day  that  nothing  can  surprise  its 
inmates,  and  even  the  Sand-jak  of  Novi-Bazar  would 
be  greeted  with  yawns.  Yet  George's  immaculate 
"get-up"  excited  as  much  interest  as  was  possible  in 
the  stolid  nature  of  Finch,  who,  wearing  a  handker- 
chief in  place  of  a  collar,  and  with  his  shirt  open  at 
the  neck,  needed  all  the  hints  he  could  obtain  from  my; 


64  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

spruce  friend  for  his  own  sartorial  guidance.  I  ex- 
changed greetings  with  Woodward,  a  methodical 
fellow  of  mediocre  ability,  but  who  never  made  a 
mistake  at  the  "  desk,"  and  kept  his  billet  on  the 
Evening  Star  while  more  brilliant  men  came  and 
went,  inquired  after  mutual  acquaintances  on  the  Press 
Club,  and  asked  him  to  show  George  how  things 
were  done  on  the  smartest  evening  paper  in  Great 
Britain. 

"What's  on?"  I  asked  of  Steward,  as  Woodward 
complied  with  my  request. 

"  Nothing  of  interest,  my  son.  Hewson's  off  on  a 
story  that  may  'pan'  out  into  a  good  murder,  but 
people  have  grown  so  moral  that  we  can't  raise  a  yarn 
worth  more  than  three  '  sticks/  Now,  if  you'd  start  a 
Society  scandal  I'd  play  it  up  for  all  it  was  worth." 

Steward  broke  off  abruptly,  as  though  a  thought 
had  struck  him,  seized  a  pencil,  ran  his  fingers  through 
his  hair,  and  scribbled  away  for  a  minute.  Then  he 
read  out  the  following: 


"Society's  Favorite  Leads  Popular  Actress  to  the 

Altar 

"  Where  was  Mr.  Gerald  Hanbury  at  twelve  o'clock 
to-day?  That  is  what  the  fashionable  West  End  is 
asking,  the  ladies  with  sighs,  the  gentlemen  with  feel- 
ings of  relief. 

"  He  was  being  married. 

"  Who  was  he  marrying — a  Princess  of  the  Blood 
Royal?  a  Countess  in  her  own  right,  a  Transatlantic 
heiress?  He  was  leading  to  the  altar  Miss  Cynthia 


MARCH  65 

Cochrane,  the  charming  '  soubrette '  of  the  '  Firefly 
Theater/ 

"  The  ceremony  took  place  in  the  Bodega.  The 
bride,  clad  in  clinging  '  voile/  and  a  merino  toque,  was 
given  away  by  her  past.  There  was  no  best  man,  for, 
as  Mr.  Hanbury  remarked  to  the  officiating  minister, 
'  There  can  be  no  better  man  than  myself/ 

"  The  happy  couple  have  left  for  their  honeymoon 
at  Clapham  Junction,  on  credit. 

"  No  flowers,  by  request." 

"  Hang  you,  Steward,"  I  said,  as  everybody  roared, 
"  I  didn't  come  to  be  insulted." 

Steward  took  a  spoonful  of  his  abominable  diet,  and 
called  a  boy. 

"  Here,"  he  exclaimed,  "  get  this  set  up  and  bring 
me  a  proof.  Mr.  Hanbury  wants  a  memento  of  his 
visit." 

I  made  a  rush  at  the  messenger,  but  he  disappeared. 
I  didn't  know  office  boys  could  move  so  quickly. 

I  was  thinking  of  the  effective  retort  which,  how- 
ever, escaped  me,  when  a  pile  of  copy  thrust  into  the 
central  basket  drew  general  attention.  George  Burn 
was  wandering  around  the  room  like  a  lost  soul, 
Steward  was  frowning  over  the  illegible  handwriting 
of  an  important  member  of  the  staff,  every  one  was 
absorbed.  I  took  up  a  reporter's  notebook  from  the 
table,  put  down  a  paragraph,  and,  silently  gesticulating 
to  a  boy,  conveyed  to  him  that  I  wished  it  put  into 
type.  The  urchin  grinned  and  went  off.  I  leaned  back 
nonchalantly  and  hummed  a  popular  tune  through 
my  teeth. 

Ten  minutes  passed.  George,  who  had  finished  his 
tour  of  inspection,  whispered  to  me  that  he  had  to  be 


66  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

at  Rumpelmayer's  at  5.15.  I  made  no  response.  rA. 
pile  of  proofs  was  brought  in  and  divided  out  amongst 
those  at  the  table.  A  minute  later  and  a  big  fleshy 
man  opposite  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  Finch 
followed  suit.  Steward  looked  up  angrily. 

"Can't  you  fellows  find  something  else  to  do  than 
to  laugh  like  hyenas  ?  " 

"  He's  got  even  with  you,  Steward,"  spluttered  the 
fat  man,  still  shaking  with  mirth.  "  How's  this  ?  " 

"  The  friends  of  Mr.  Steward,  the  well-known 
journalist,  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  he  changed  his 
shirt  to-day  and  put  on  another  pair  of  cuffs.  There 
is  no  truth  in  the  rumor  that  he  shaved.  He  did  not. 
Appearances  are  often  deceitful,  but  Mr.  Steward  has 
no  appearance." 

Steward  swept  the  litter  in  front  of  him  into  one 
mass  and  hurled  it  at  my  head.  I  dodged  for  the 
door. 

"  We  don't  want  your  monkey  tricks  here,  Han- 
bury,"  he  shouted  after  my  retreating  form. 

I  forbore  to  reply;  but  when,  on  opening  the 
"  Last "  edition  of  the  Evening  Star,  I  saw  my  offend- 
ing paragraph  in  the  "  News  of  the  Day  "  column, 
evidently  slipped  in  by  some  mischief-loving  "sub," 
I  felt  that  I  had  got  the  best  of  the  encounter. 

Mr.  Ponting-Mallow  is  a  bore.  No  self-respecting 
husband  ought  to  be  in  his  wife's  boudoir  after  three 
o'clock,  and  yet,  when  I  called  at  Porchester  Terrace 
at  tea  time,  I  found  him  there,  with  an  Indian  cheroot 
in  full  blast,  reading  aloud  an  article  from  the  Eastern 
Quarterly  on  "Suttee  and  Symbolism."  Ponting^ 


MARCH  67 

Mallow  has  revived  the  extinct  fashion  of  side  whisk- 
ers, much  to  the  disparagement  of  his  personal  appear- 
ance, his  complexion  is  as  parched  as  his  favorite 
delicacy — Bombay  duck — and  he  preserves  a  military 
precision  in  his  dress,  for  his  frock  coat  is  always  but- 
toned as  tight  as  a  tunic,  and  his  trousers  might  have 
been  worn  at  the  Brighton  Pavilion  under  the  Regency 
without  exciting  comment. 

Ponting-Mallow  merely  raised  his  eyebrows  by  way 
of  greeting  to  me,  and  continued  his  reading: 

"  To  the  early  European  observers  the  practice  of 
suttee — the  immolation  of  bereaved  wives  on  the 
funeral  pyre  of  their  departed  lord  and  master — ap- 
peared as  nothing  else  than  the  rite  of  an  ignorant 
and  degraded  Paganism,  a  superstition  of  which  the 
origin  might  be  traced  to  those  savage  times  when  the 
death  of  their  natural  protector  left  the  widows  an 
easy  and  immediate  prey  to  the  enemies  swarming  out- 
side. Scientific  vision,  however,  cleared  from  the 
mists  of  prejudice,  sees  in  the  ceremony  of  suttee  a 
noble  tribute  to  the  sanctity  of  marriage  in  the  East, 
by  its  insistence  on  the  indissoluble  nature  of  the 
union,  and  the  inability  of  the  wife  to  look  upon  her- 
self in  any  other  light  than  that  of  the  natural  com- 
plement of  her  husband." 

An  involuntary  exclamation  of  appreciation  escaped 
from  me.  Mr.  Mallow  looked  up.  "A  finely  ex- 
pressed  "  here  he  paused,  with  an  irritating  trick 

he  has  when  half-way  through  a  sentence,  as  if  anxious 
to  let  the  weight  of  his  words  sink  into  his  hearer's 
mind — "  er — truth." 

"The  practice  seems  well  worth  adopting  here,"  I 


68  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

suggested,  "  with  the  addition  of  a  pyre  for  widowers, 
so  that  they  might  also  display  a  burning  affection  for 
the  dear  departed." 

"  In  the  Buddhist  faith,  Hanbury,"  said  my  host, 
"  the  devotion  of  the  husband  to  his  wife's  memory  is 
presumed.  He  displays  it  best  by — er — marrying 
again." 

"  Most  of  us  must  be  Buddhists  then,  without  know- 
ing it,"  I  responded.  "It's  very  comforting  to  be 
able  to  have  the  sanction  of  religion  to  gratify  one's 
own  personal  inclinations.  But  weren't  the  wives 
supposed  to  be  capable  of  constancy?" 

"Easterns  class  women  with  animals  in — er — pos- 
sessing no  soul.  The  contact  of  Western  civilization 
is  gradually  dispelling  that  idea." 

"Dispelling  it?  I  should  have  thought  it  would 
have  confirmed  them  in  that  belief.  Give  me  charge 
of  an  Indian  Johnny  for  a  season,  and  I'd  convince 
him  of  the  unwisdom  of  modifying  his  original  esti- 
mate of  the  sex." 

"  Haven't  women  treated  you  kindly  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Mallow,  with  a  pout  that  was  meant  expressly  for 
my  benefit. 

"  They've  led  me  a  dog's  life,"  I  retorted. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha ! "  croaked  old  Mallow  in  a  fit  of  merri- 
ment, misplaced  because  a  wise  husband,  conscious 
that  the  marriage  of  May  and  December  can  only  be 
a  success  if  the  former  may  sometimes  join  hands  with 
June,  would  have  refrained  from  laughing  at  a  young 
man  who  had  come  to  reconcile  a  high-spirited  and 
pretty  woman  to  the  incongruity  of  her  position. 

I  sympathized  acutely  with  Mrs.  Mallow's  predica- 
ment in  being  wedded  to  a  man  in  whose  life  she  had 
so  little  share  that  she  ought  never  to  have  come  into 


MARCH  69 

it.  Mrs.  Mallow  and  I  exchanged  a  glance  of  disgust, 
a  glance  which  Ponting-Mallow  must  have  inter- 
cepted, for  his  mood  underwent  a  swift  transforma- 
tion. 

"  Perhaps,  Hanbury,"  he  said,  as  he  picked  up  the 
magazine  from  his  knee,  "when  you  have — er — 
finished  your  witticisms  you  will — er — allow  me  to 
continue ! " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mallow,  with  a 
courage  I  admired,  "  I  think  you've  read  quite  enough, 
and  it  is  very  kind  of  Mr.  Hanbury  to  come  in  and 
amuse  us." 

"  My  dear  Julia,"  retorted  Mr.  Mallow,  in  his  best 
courthouse  manner,  "  I  must  ask  you  not  to — er — 
contradict  me  in  my  own  establishment." 

If  the  rift  in  the  Ponting-Mallow  lute  widened  any 
more,  all  other  conversation  would  be  engulfed  in  it, 
and  my  errand  to  Porchester  Terrace  remain  unful- 
filled. But  any  frontal  attack,  with  Ponting-Mallow 
as  firmly  entrenched  in  his  chair  as  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington in  the  lines  of  Torres  Vedras,  was  doomed  to 
failure.  My  eye  fell  on  the  parrot  I  had  ostensibly 
come  to  prescribe  for,  and  inspiration  seized  me. 

"  Now,  Polly,  what  do  you  think  of  it  all?" 

As  I  asked  the  question  the  bird  uttered  a  bubbling 
noise  which  might  have  been  interpreted  in  any  sense. 
I  moved  my  left  eyelid  in  an  almost  imperceptible  wink 
at  Mrs.  Mallow,  and  continued: 

"  There,  he  says  he's  awfully  bored  with  us,  and  is 
simply  longing  to  have  you  to  himself ! " 

The  faintest  suspicion  of  a  smile  dimpled  my  host- 
ess's cheek,  but  her  husband  gave  no  sign  that  my 
words  bore  other  than  their  surface  meaning.  I 
fidgeted,  and  upset  a  teacup,  but  that  dense  old  Indian 


70  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

official,  whose  retirement  from  duty  was  obviously 
due  to  softening  of  the  brain,  made  no  movement  of 
departure.  He  was  only  waiting  for  the  door  to  close 
on  me  to  inflict  a  further  installment  of  "  Suttee  arid 
Symbolism  "  upon  his  martyr  of  a  wife.  How  I  hated 
his  chutney  skin  and  his  idiotic  magazine! 

In  despair  I  once  again  apostrophized  the  parrot, 
who  obligingly  squawked  in  a  piercing  key. 

"Yes,  he's  saying  that,  if  he  were  a  human  being 
instead  of  a  green  bird,  he  would  take  you  to  a 
matinee  at  Daly's." 

Mrs.  Mallow  bent  her  head  as  I  made  the  audacious 
proposal  on  the  bird's  behalf,  and  I  rose  triumphantly. 

"  I  really  must  be  going,"  I  exclaimed,  in  anything 
but  lugubrious  tones,  as  I  stood  before  the  little  lady, 
"  but  I  hope  to  see  you  again — at  Daly's,"  I  added 
under  my  breath.  Then  I  flung  a  last  word  at  Pont- 
ing-Mallow : 

"  Good-by,  sir.  I  think  if  I  were  a  Mahatma  or 
Brahmin,  or  whatever  the  fellows  are  called,  I  should 
be  more  occupied  in  keeping  my  wife's  affections 
during  my  life  than  in  procuring  a  theatrical  and 
revolting  exhibition  of  them  after  my  death." 

"  You'll  teach  us — er — many  things,  no  doubt,  when 
you  are  married,"  replied  Ponting-Mallow,  lighting 
another  of  his  confounded  cheroots.  "  And  learn  a 
few,  too,"  he  added  as  an  afterthought. 

The  sarcasm  was  wasted  on  me,  for  I  had  just 
caught  Mrs.  Mallow's  eye,  and  when  I  catch  an  eye 
like  hers  I  don't  let  it  go  easily. 

My  considered  judgment  on  Ponting-Mallow  is  this : 
He  has  all  the  characteristics  of  the  louse  without  its 
pluck ! 

•  •  •  •  » 

Clive  Massey  is  beginning  to  be  a  source  of  anxiety 


MARCH  71 

in  many  quarters.  He  is  just  the  thoughtless,  impul- 
sive soul  whose  welfare  is  a  concern  to  everybody 
except  himself.  Anyhow,  I  see  trouble  ahead,  and 
not  upon  unsubstantial  evidence.  The  first  hint  came 
to  me  while  I  was  leaning  over  the  barrier  at  Princes' 
Skating  Club  the  other  Sunday,  intent  on  watching  an 
elderly  lady  doing  outside-edge  backward,  and  pick- 
ing herself  up  after  each  turn.  For  patience  and 
pertinacity  she  was  beating  the  record  set  up  by  Bruce 
and  the  spider.  She  had  fallen  into  double  figures 
when  a  well-known  voice  sounded  just  behind  me.  I 
turned  around  sharply  to  be  confronted  by  Miss  Dolly 
Thurston  and  her  aunt,  whose  house  in  Cadogan 
Square  is  a  favorite  pied-a-terre  of  the  former's  when 
on  the  warpath  in  town.  After  the  exchange  of 
formal  greetings,  Miss  Thurston  dropped  into  con- 
fidential tones,  meant  for  my  ear  alone. 

"  Have  you  heard  anything  of  Clive  Massey 
lately?  "  she  inquired,  with  a  nonchalance  that  showed 
me  how  much  importance  she  attached  to  my  answer. 
"  Mother  asked  him  to  come  to  a  dance,  and  got  no 
reply." 

"  I've  no  more  information  than  you  have,"  I  truth- 
fully said.  After  all,  there  was  no  reason  to  connect 
the  incident  of  the  "Alcazar"  ball  with  Massey's 
shortcomings  as  a  correspondent. 

"  He's  probably  working  hard,"  I  went  on  reassur- 
ingly. "  Hasn't  he  got  an  exam  on  this  term  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Hanbury,"  and  the  emphasis  in  Dolly  Thur- 
ston's  voice  rebuked  my  suggestion,  "you  don't  look 
after  your  friends  very  well.  Clive  has  scarcely  been 
in  Oxford  at  all.  He  finds  London  a  pleasanter 
place." 

"Isn't  it?"  I  asked,  with  engaging  innocence.  I 
wasn't  going  to  let  the  girl  see  I  suspected  anything. 


72  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

"  Mr.  Hanbury,  dive's  getting  into  mischief.  Sybil 
Bellew  passed  him  in  Piccadilly  when  he  was  walking 
with  a  stage  person,  and  he  wouldn't  look  at  Sy- 
bil." 

A  girl  of  Dolly's  age  doesn't  concern  herself  with 
the  moral  welfare  of  an  undergraduate  except  for  the 
best  of  reasons — or  the  worst — it  all  depends  on  one's 
point  of  view  toward  the  institution  of  marriage. 
Massey  must  have  made  an  impression  at  Southlands. 
I  paid  Miss  Thurston  the  compliment  of  taking  her 
seriously. 

"  I'll  find  out  everything  there  is  to  know.  But 
young  men  will  be  young  men." 

"Can  they  only  be  young  men  with  the  help  of 
young  women?"  asked  Dolly  Thurston,  with  an  un- 
expected flash  of  wit,  turning  her  head  away  a  moment 
later,  as  she  realized  the  boldness  of  her  comment. 
Red-hot  on  the  scent  of  an  opportunity  for  the  display 
of  my  diplomatic  gifts,  I  forbore  to  reply,  and  rushed 
away  with  an  abruptness  that  must  have  astonished 
my  companion.  I  like  to  be  in  the  front  line  of  battle 
on  all  occasions. 

In  the  next  few  days,  from  various  sources,  I 
gleaned  the  following  facts  bearing  on  "L'Affaire 
Massey  " : 

1.  Massey  had  been  seen  lunching  with  a  vision  in 

brick-red,  and  a  hat  festooned  with  cherries — 
"a  ballet  girl  with  a  bally  orchard  on  her 
head,"  as  my  informant  phrased  it. 

2.  The  'Varsity  Notes  in  a  certain  flippant  weekly 

contained  the  following  cryptic  sentence: 
"  A  popular  member  of  the  cast  of  the  forth- 
coming O.  U.  D.  S.  performance  of  The  Merry 


MARCH  73 

Wives  of  Windsor  is  doing  most  of  his  re- 
hearsing in  town,  though  opinion  is  divided 
as  to  whether  he  is  rehearsing  for  a  breach  of 
promise  case  or  a  Registrar's  Office." 

3.  A  mutual  friend  of  George  Burn  and  Massey 

had  accompanied  the  latter  to  buy  a  necklace 
of  uncut  turquoises,  which  rumor  said  might 
be  seen  nightly  on  the  stage  of  the  "  Firefly  " 
Theater  during  one  of  the  most  popular  num- 
bers in  The  Cock  and  the  Hen. 

4.  The  hall  porter  at  the  Club  had  been  heard  to 

declare  to  one  of  his  satellites  that  Mr.  Mas- 
sey's  young  woman  must  be  very  fond  of  him, 
to  write  so  many  letters,  and  send  them  all 
round  by  special  messenger  with  instructions 
to  await  reply. 

In  this  emergency  I  decided  to  look  up  Drummond, 
a  thing  easier  said  than  done,  however.  If  I  called 
round  at  his  rooms  he  was  invariably  out,  if  I  sent  up 
for  him  at  the  "  Firefly  "  he  was  either  "  on  in  front " 
or  absent  with  a  cold,  and  his  club  in  Leicester  Square 
seemed  to  serve  no  other  purpose  for  him  than  to  act 
as  a  place  where  he  might  call  for  his  letters.  But  I 
finally  ran  him  to  earth  there  one  afternoon  about  four, 
to  find  he  had  just  finished  what  he  called  "a  light 
lunch  after  a  wet  night."  Judging  from  the  array  of 
empty  oyster  shells,  the  skeleton  of  what  looked  like  a 
shark,  but  turned  out  to  be  a  sole,  the  two  grilled 
bones  that  might  have  belonged  to  the  mammoth  they 
dug  up  in  Siberia  the  other  day,  and  the  bottle  of 
"pop"  turned  upside  down  to  prove  its  emptiness, 
any  lightness  Drummond  had  derived  from  the  meal 
could  only  have  gone  to  his  head. 


74  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

From  the  glimpse  I  had  caught  of  Drummond  at 
the  "  Alcazar  "  ball,  I  was  under  the  impression  he 
had  scarcely  changed  at  all  from  his  Oxford  days,  but 
in  the  cold  light  of  the  day  that  filtered  through  the 
diamond-paned  windows  I  saw  that  Drummond's  com- 
plexion was  pasty,  from  the  nightly  "make-up"  of 
paint  and  powder,  that  his  hair  was  thinner  on  the  top 
than  would  have  been  the  case  had  he  led  a  more 
normal  existence,  and  that  he  wore  a  scarlet  knitted 
waistcoat  picked  out  with  green  spots,  a  watchchain 
of  plaited  hair  ending  in  a  bunch  of  seals,  and  a  pair 
of  patent  leather  boots  with  white  kid  "  uppers." 

The  conversation,  from  my  point  of  view,  took  a 
little  time  to  get  under  weigh,  because  Drummond 
overflowed  with  embarrassing  cordiality,  and  I  was 
introduced  forthwith  to  the  other  occupants  of  the 
half  dining,  half  smoking  room,  that  formed  the  chief 
part  of  the  club  premises,  and  plied  with  questions  as 
to  my  opinion  of  this  piece  and  that  in  which  the  pres- 
ent company  were  individually  appearing,  for  the  feed- 
ing of  whose  vanity  I  scattered  fulsome  eulogies  of 
plays  I  hadn't  seen  and  didn't  want  to.  When  I  got 
Drummond  to  myself  I  asked  him  for  particulars  of 
the  girl  he  had  introduced  Massey  to  at  the  ball. 

"Alice  Howard,  you  mean,"  said  Drummond, 
"  she's  in  our  show.  She's  got  a  nineteen-inch  waist, 
and  takes  *  threes '  in  shoes." 

"  I  don't  want  her  measurements.  What's  she  like 
to  talk  to?" 

"Saucy,  very  saucy."  Drummond's  voice  had  a 
reminiscent  note.  "  Long  eyelashes,  and  a  short 
memory,  narrow  face  and  broad  humor.  She  talks 
about  *  her  dear  mother  in  the  country,'  and  you  think 
of  your  dear  father  in  the  city.  She  *  simply  loves 


MARCH  75 

animals/  and  only  rides  in  motors.  SHe  says  she's 
devoted  to  her  art,  yet  she's  quite  artless.  She  *  knows 
all  the  ropes/  and  has  one  of  pearls.  Oh,  Lordie, 
she's  a  handful!" 

"  After  that,  I  should  know  Her  anywhere,"  I  ex- 
claimed approvingly.  "  Whom  has  she  got  in  tow  at 
present  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me,"  was  Drummond's  weary  rejoinder. 
"  I  can't  keep  pace  with  all  the  highfliers  in  our  show. 
There's  always  some  new  boy  being  trotted  out  for 
my  benefit  when  I  stand  '  right  center '  before  the  old 
rag  falls  on  the  tableau  of  the  market  place.  If  it 
isn't  a  photo  of  *  darling  Bobbie '  at  the  wheel  of  a 
Panhard,  grinning  like  an  ape  at  the  ten-guinea  hat 
in  the  foreground  he  hasn't  paid  for  yet,  it's  sure  to 
be  '  a  duck  of  a  bracelet  *  from  some  other  silly 
juggins,  upon  the  costliness  of  which  I'm  expected  to 
make  appropriate  comment.  I  rather  fancy  Alice  has 
a  fresh  'flame/  At  least  I  dimly  recollect  being 
shown  a  bangle,  or  necklace,  or  something.  But  I'm 
fed  up  with  all  their  goings-on.  When  it  comes  to 
the  Maiden  Selling  Plate  I'm  one  of  the  '  also-rans/  ' 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  brilliant  impromptu  Drum- 
mond  flicked  a  speck  of  dust  off  one  polished  boot, 
drew  the  knees  of  his  trousers  carefully  up  to  avoid 
bagging,  undid  the  last  two  buttons  of  his  waistcoat, 
and  shut  his  eyes.  As  I  reached  the  door  he  began  to 
snore.  He  had  earned  his  nap. 

The  sequel  was  that  Haines  and  myself  got  stalls 
at  the  "  Firefly,"  and  went  to  judge  the  case  upon  its 
merits— or  rather,  hers.  We  both  spotted  the  young 
woman  as  soon  as  she  came  on  for  the  song  and 
dance,  "  The  Boy  was  Black,  and  so  the  Girl  looked 
Blue,"  which  has  helped  to  give  The  Cock  and  the 


76  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

Hen  a  thirteen  months'  run.  Alice  Howard,  wearing 
a  short  costume  of  black  and  white  lozenges,  her 
unbraided  hair  tied  with  pink  ribbon,  looked  the  very 
picture  of  designing  innocence.  The  necklace  was 
there,  reinforced  by  other  jewelry  in  the  shape  of  a 
locket  on  a  long  gold  chain,  four  bracelets,  and  a  mass 
of  rings.  She  moved  as  though  it  was  an  awful  bore 
having  to  come  on  at  all,  and  went  through  the  inane 
gyrations  expected  of  the  chorus  with  complete  in- 
difference. We  both  agreed  that  she  was  a  highly 
dangerous  combination  of  attractions.  Massey,  in  my 
rooms,  had  talked  about  life.  The  term  "  life  "  in 
the  mouth  of  inexperienced  people  like  himself  is  in- 
variably a  euphemism  for  "  Woman,"  and  to  a  super- 
ficial observer  Miss  Howard  offered  plenty  of  unde- 
veloped territory  for  the  explorer.  It  was  this  sense 
of  the  unknown  in  her  acquaintance  that  would  ap- 
peal to  the  venturesome  in  Massey's  character. 

Of  course  Drummond  caught  sight  of  me  a  few 
minutes  later,  but  our  attention  was  diverted  from  his 
pantomimic  gestures  of  welcome  by  the  interest  Miss 
Howard  displayed  in  the  occupant  of  the  stage  box  on 
the  right,  but  whose  identity  was  concealed  from 
Haines  and  myself  by  our  position  in  the  stalls,  until 
in  the  "  foyer  "  during  the  interval  we  discovered  Mas- 
sey. The  latter  seemed  somewhat  abashed  at  the  en- 
counter. 

"  Hello,  here  alone  ?  "  I  exclaimed  cheerily. 

"  The  other  man  fell  through  at  the  last  moment," 
said  Massey,  with  a  hypocritical  smirk. 

"  Where  are  you  sitting?  "  I  continued.  "  I  haven't 
seen  any  signs  of  you." 

"  I'm  in  a  box." 

Haines  intervened.     "I  didn't  know  you  were  a 


MARCH  77 

millionaire,  but  if  you're  the  fellow  that  Flossie  of 
the  Ringlets  has  been  staring  at  all  the  time,  you've 
made  a  conquest!" 

Massey  modestly  disclaimed  any  responsibility,  and 
began  a  movement  of  retreat. 

"  You'll  come  on  to  supper  with  us  ?  "  The  ques- 
tion was  mine. 

"Awfully  sorry,  old  fellow,  but  I'm  engaged." 

"  We  shall  probably  see  you  at  '  the  Roman's ' 
then,"  I  said,  drawing  my  bow  at  a  venture.  Massey 
gave  a  start  of  surprise  and  annoyance.  Evidently 
his  rendezvous  with  Alice  Howard  had  been  antici- 
pated. He  would  have  to  make  other  arrangements. 
The  plot  thickened. 

"  I've  got  to  write  a  note,"  he  broke  out.  "  See  you 
fellows  another  time,"  and  he  rushed  off. 

Haines  and  I  looked  at  one  another.  "Why  on 
earth  are  we  bothering  about  the  fellow?"  I  asked. 
"  It's  no  business  of  ours." 

"  I  rather  like  his  young  woman,"  Haines  retorted 
candidly,  "and  you  enjoy  playing  the  heavy  father, 
Hanbury.  That's  why  we're  going  to  see  this  thing 
through." 

So  we  returned  to  our  seats  when  the  bell  rang,  to 
resume  our  Vigilance  Committee  work  in  the  interests 
of — Massey,  I  suppose.  Haines  fixed  his  opera  glass 
on  Miss  Howard  so  persistently  that  Drummond,  in  a 
convenient  interlude  in  the  cafe  scene,  pointed  out  to 
her  the  interest  she  was  arousing,  only  to  be  rewarded 
for  his  pains  by  the  haughty  toss  of  a  fair  head,  an 
indifference  on  the  lady's  part  which  did  not  last,  for 
she  took  a  careful  survey  of  Haines  a  moment  later, 
and  cast  a  glance  in  his  direction  whenever  she  made 
an  entrance.  Haines'  dress  clothes  are  a  model  of 


78  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

tailoring,  and  he  believes  in  a  carnation  as  a  button- 
hole, so  he  deserved  scrutiny.  I  could  fancy  Alice 
Howard  spoiling  the  jealous  Massey's  supper  with 
talk  of  a  rival  admirer.  I  certainly  gave  her  no  credit 
for  caring  a  rap  about  our  young  friend,  or,  indeed, 
about  anybody,  for  a  heart  would  merely  have  got  in 
the  way  of  her  professional  career. 

Haines  wanted  to  draw  the  various  supper  haunts 
for  the  pair,  but  I  put  a  stop  to  his  malicious  project. 
Massey  deserved  a  run  for  his  money,  and  I  was 
grateful  to  him  for  giving  our  set  conversational  open- 
ings that  would  last  at  least  a  month. 

Confined  to  my  Jermyn  Street  rooms  by  a  heavy 
cold,  and  as  bad  a  spell  of  raw  weather  as  March  can 
show,  a  fit  of  tidying  up  seized  me  yesterday,  but  I 
never  got  beyond  the  drawer  into  which  Cynthia 
Cochrane's  correspondence  had  been  thrust,  for  open- 
ing one  envelope  to  see  whether  or  not  it  was  worth 
keeping,  I  became  so  interested  that  I  went  on  from 
sheet  to  sheet,  and  letter  to  letter,  until  the  afternoon 
had  gone,  and  the  zeal  for  destruction  evaporated. 

Extending  over  the  nine  years  during  which  Cynthia 
and  I  have  maintained  friendship,  the  letters  chronicle 
a  record  of  sunshine  and  storm,  and,  if  fate  should 
ever  intervene  to  sever  my  relations  with  the  actress, 
they  will  serve  to  keep  for  me  a  golden  memory.  I 
little  thought  when,  as  a  happy  undergraduate,  I 
chased  a  flying  hat  down  an  esplanade  it  would  lead 
to  a  sentimental  impasse  with  a  woman  destined  for 
high  honors  in  a  profession  in  which  success  is  al- 
ways hardly  won.  For  if  Cynthia's  letters  show  me 
one  thing  it  is  that  the  stage  is  conquered  by  some- 
thing more  than  the  possession  of  two  rows  of  white 


MARCH  79 

teeth  and  an  Odol  smile.  When  a  drawing-room 
darling,  sitting  on  a  Louis  Seize  chair,  in  a  lace  frock 
trimmed  with  baby  ribbon,  talks  about  "  going  on  the 
stage,"  she  pictures  herself  walking  on  in  the  limelight 
to  the  soft  strains  of  the  orchestra,  clad  in  the  latest 
creation  of  Reville  and  Rossiter,  with  all  her  friends 
in  the  stalls  applauding  till  their  gloves  split,  and  the 
rest  of  the  company  spellbound  at  her  loveliness  and 
grace.  Then  the  actor-manager  will  lead  her  three 
times  before  the  curtain  for  a  further  salvo  from  the 
audience,  when  she  will  be  free  to  drive  away  in  an 
electric  brougham,  upholstered  in  white  satin,  to  sup 
with  the  Duke  of  Magenta  Stretlitz,  who  will  offer  her 
the  strawberry  leaves  directly  the  poulet  au  diable  has 
been  served  on  gold  plate.  As  every  girl  I  know 
cherishes  this  modest  ambition,  I  often  have  occasion 
to  recall  the  realities  of  theatrical  life  as  depicted  by 
Cynthia's  pen. 

The  earliest  epistles  dealt  with  Cynthia's  experi- 
ences on  tour,  the  following  being  sent  one  September 
from  a  holiday  resort  just  big  enough  to  boast  a  pier 
pavilion,  and  to  hold  a  troupe  of  White  Coons  as  well 
as  the  Golden  Belle  company: 

"  I've  risen  to  3O/-  a  week  on  the  salary  list,  and 
I'm  going  strong.  Thanks  to  the  billstickers,  and  the 
enterprise  of  the  advance  agent,  the  house  has  been 
full  every  night,  and  the  manager  as  cheerful  as  a 
cherub,  such  a  contrast  from  our  last  stopping  place, 
where  he  swore  the  whole  time,  and  sacked  a  girl  be- 
cause she  kissed  the  stage  carpenter  during  the  setting 
of  the  baronial  hall. 

"  My  chance  seems  a  long  time  in  coming,  but  as 
fortune,  they  say,  knocks  at  every  one's  door  once  in 


80  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

a  lifetime,  he  is  bound  to  rattle  on  my  bit  of  oak 
sooner  or  later,  and  I  shan't  keep  him  waiting  longer 
than  it  takes  to  jump  into  the  hall  and  raise  the  latch. 
I  know  I  could  do  better  than  Grace  Western,  who  is 
only  playing  the  lead  because  her  boy  is  rich,  and 
backing  her.  She'll  exhaust  even  the  boss's  patience, 
though,  if  she  continues  to  carry  on  with  a  fresh  fel- 
low in  every  town  and  to  fill  the  local  papers  with 
paragraphs  about  'What  the  Little  Bird  Saw.'  If 
the  little  bird  saw  half  of  Grace's  goings-on  he'd  molt 
all  his  feathers,  and  take  to  blinkers. 

"We  are  having  the  best  of  times,  picnics,  tea 
parties,  and  gayeties  without  end.  Indeed,  without 
such  intervals  of  calm  as  we  get  at  places  like  this,  no 
one  could  stand  the  racket  and  rush  of  touring.  Why, 
I  haven't  slept  so  well  for  months ! " 

Then  there  is  another  in  a  different  key,  when 
Cynthia  was  in  a  northern  manufacturing  town  dur- 
ing a  bleak  February. 

"  I've  never  been  in  a  more  horrible  place.  It  rains 
all  day,  and  I  sit  wondering  what  sins  I've  committed 
to  deserve  such  punishment.  The  '  digs '  are  no 
better — a  frowzy  landlady,  who  is  rarely  sober,  the 
mirror  patched  with  brown  paper,  candle  grease  every- 
where, and  the  food  brought  up  on  dishes  that  look 
as  though  they  hadn't  been  washed  since  the  last 
tenant  went.  When  I  complained,  the  woman  said 
that  actresses  couldn't  pick  and  choose  their  lodgings, 
but  must  be  thankful  to  find  the  people  who  would 
take  them  in  at  all.  That's  the  sort  of  thing  that 
makes  me  want  to  chuck  the  stage  for  good  and  all. 

"  Things  aren't  going  smoothly  in  the  show  either. 


MARCH  81 

The  box  office  grumbles  at  the  takings,  everybody 
feels  '  down  in  the  mouth,'  and  the  manager  thinks 
I'm  *  stuck  up '  because  I  won't  let  him  make  love  to 
me.  Still,  it  will  be  all  the  same  a  hundred  years 
hence ! 

"  We  are  due  in  the  suburbs  in  five  weeks,  hurrah ! 
Then,  my  dear,  you  shall  give  me  supper,  and  we'll 
do  a  '  Covent  Garden '  together  and  I'll  forget  that 
men  can  be  cads,  and  women  wanton." 

Ambition  to  succeed  kept  Cynthia  loyal  to  the  pro- 
fession, she  had  pluck  and  faith  in  herself,  and  she 
pulled  through  where  a  girl  with  less  talent  or  deter- 
mination would  have  retired  into  private  life,  and  a 
hat  shop.  From  my  privileged  position  behind  the 
scenes  I  saw  how  hard  was  the  fight. 

"I've  rehearsed  from  9  till  3"  (so  ran  one  letter), 
"put  in  an  evening  performance  from  7.30-10.30, 
saved  a  pal  from  making  a  fool  of  herself  with  a  man 
who  ought  to  have  known  better,  and  now  I'm  writing 
to  you  in  order  to  let  myself  talk  to  somebody  who 
does  believe  in  me.  When  I  become  a  *  star '  won't  I 
be  good  to  my  understudy,  my  word ! — and  to  all  the 
girls  who  are  trying  to  live  on  less  than  £2  a  week, 
and  sending  home  a  postal  order  to  their  mothers  as 
well !  I  respect  success  more  than  ever  now  I  realize 
how  hardly  it  is  won,  and  how  for  one  victor  there 
are  ten  vanquished." 

Cynthia  got  her  foot  on  the  ladder,  which  was  to 
reach  to  the  stage  of  the  "Alcazar,"  by  an  incident 
described  as  follows  by  my  lively  correspondent: 

"  Grace  Western  has  done  for  herself  at  last.    Three 


83  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

nights  ago  she  came  on  'full  of  corn,'  according  to 
the  expressive  vocabulary  of  the  scene  shifters,  and 
cheeked  the  management  right  and  left.  So,  at  the 
end.  of  a  performance  in  which  the  gallery  pelted  our 
leading  lady  with  pronouns  and  paper  pellets,  Grace 
was  officially  informed  that,  as  her  home  circle  must 
be  pining  for  the  return  of  its  brightest  ornament, 
she  had  better  catch  the  night  express.  And  now 
rumor  runs  that  her  Crcesus  isn't  taking  any  more  of 
Grace  because  she  smacked  his  face  on  the  arrival 
platform  of  St.  Pancras  for  not  having  already  horse- 
whipped the  London  impresario  of  the  Golden  Belle 
on  .her  behalf. 

"I  am  playing  second  lead  on  the  strength  of  the 
vacancy ;  and  what  follows  ?  " 

From  that  moment  Cynthia  Cochrane  never  looked 
back.  She  went  from  second  to  lead,  from  the  prov- 
inces to  London  pantomime,  and  thence  to  the 
"  Alcazar,"  and  the  glory  of  capital  letters  on  the  play- 
bills. 

It  was  with  the  pantomime  engagement  at  the  Pad- 
dington  "Grand,"  now  nearly  two  years  ago,  that 
Jimmy  Berners  appeared  on  the  scene.  Cynthia,  of 
course,  has  had  hosts  of  admirers  besides  "  yours 
truly,"  but  to  their  advances  and  attentions  she  has 
presented  an  innocence  and  resoluteness  baffling  the 
most  persistent  and  infatuated.  In  many  ways  Cyn- 
thia, from  the  point  of  view  of  the  stage,  is  peculiar. 
She  has  always  refused  to  acknowledge  that  the  sign- 
ing of  a  contract  gives  her  agent  any  right  to  sup 
with  her,  and,  if  her  attention  has  been  drawn  to  the 
fact  that  the  same  stall  has  been  occupied  night  after 
night  by  the  same  individual  gazing  at  her  with 


MARCH  83 

vacuous  admiration,  Cynthia  has  attributed  the 
phenomenon  to  the  drawing  powers  of  the  piece  itself. 
But  Jimmy  Berners  stood  in  a  category  by  himself. 

Jimmy  Berners  was  a  city  solicitor,  with  a  very 
large  practice  built  up  on  his  shrewdness,  and  a 
capital  which  he  continually  increased  by  his  capacity 
for  successful  speculation.  Excluded  from  the  social 
circles,  he  would  fain  have  moved  in  through  his 
strongly  marked  Hebraic  features,  and  the  racial 
habits  he  failed  to  divest  himself  of,  Berners  betook 
himself  to  a  free-and-easy  sphere  where  a  gentleman 
is  permitted  to  wear  a  red  silk  handkerchief  tucked 
into  his  evening  dress  waistcoat  and  present  any  lady 
with  an  article  of  jewelry  at  short  notice.  Proceed- 
ing behind  the  scenes  at  the  Paddington  "  Grand  "  on 
one  occasion,  he  had  met  Miss  Cochrane,  and,  struck 
by  her  superiority  to  her  surroundings,  at  once  re- 
solved to  better  the  acquaintance.  Cynthia  had  drawn 
me  a  portrait  of  him  at  the  time. 

"  Such  a  quaint  creature  came  to  see  Cissie  the  other 
night  ('my  latest  mash,'  she  introduced  him  as),  a 
regular  Aaron,  with  a  buttonhole  as  big  as  a  cauli- 
flower and  a  nose  to  match,  his  coat  pinched  in  at  the 
waist  as  though  his  five  feet  of  height  had  been  six,  an 
amber-topped  cane  in  his  hand  to  make  him  look  a 
*  Percy/  and  a  bouquet  for  Cissie  that  must  have  cost 
pounds  and  pounds.  He  stared  so  much  at  me  that 
she  got  quite  angry  and  called  me  a  *  poaching  cat/ 
Fancy  me  taking  anything  away  from  Cissie — even 
her  reputation ! " 

It  wasn't  a  case  of  Cynthia  taking  Jimmy  Berners 
away  from  any  one,  but  of  Jimmy  Berners  throwing 


84,  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

himself  at  Cynthia's  head.  He  put  a  car  at  her  dis- 
posal, and  when  she  removed  to  the  "Alcazar"  in 
the  spring  he  followed,  and  leased  a  box,  which  was 
the  nearest  point  he  could  get  to  her.  The  competi- 
tion at  the  "  Alcazar "  proved  rather  severe  for 
Jimmy.  Weighed  in  the  managerial  balance,  he  had 
been  found  wanting,  and  the  stage  door  closed  to  him, 
until  he  had  followed  a  private  tip  and  invested  a 
couple  of  thousand  pounds  in  the  shares  of  the  theater. 
Cynthia's  attitude  toward  her  persistent  admirer 
was  one  of  pity. 

"He's  so  unfitted"  (she  wrote  to  me  once),  "for 
the  role  he's  taken  up  of  breaking  the  hearts  of  ac- 
tresses. Those  of  us  who  do  possess  that  unfashion- 
able commodity  will  not  barter  it  away  to  a  Frog 
Prince.  Still,  Jimmy  is  a  good  sort,  however  ridic- 
ulous he  may  be." 

In  his  own  eyes,  Jimmy  Berners  was  not  in  the 
least  bit  ridiculous.  He  was  in  deadly  earnest,  and  at 
last  forced  Cynthia  to  acknowledge  as  much,  by  offer- 
ing her  his  hand — ("  Such  a  hand,"  as  Cynthia  said, 
"all  rings  and  fat!").  A  refusal  couched  in  such 
terms  as  might  least  hurt  his  feelings  had  been  to  no 
purpose,  for  the  unabashed  Berners  still  remained  in 
attendance  and  his  car  nightly  stopped  the  way  at 
11.30  outside  the  "Alcazar"  stage  door. 

Although  I  should  be  driven  off  with  contumely 
amidst  a  shower  of  scent  bottles,  powder  puffs, 
slippers  and  lingerie,  were  I  to  say  so  in  the  dressing- 
rooms  of  the  "  Alcazar,"  I  would  advise  a  lady  of  the 
chorus  to  marry  Jimmy  Berners  before  Lord  Fitz- 
noodle.  In  spite  of  his  sallow  skin,  Jimmy  is  a 


MARCH  85 

"  white  man,"  and  if  his  blood  isn't  blue  there's  plenty 
of  it.  But  I  should  feel  some  hesitation  in  urging  my 
point  of  view  upon  Cynthia  herself.  It  would  look 
remarkably  as  though  I  were  using  Jimmy  as  a  cat's- 
paw  to  draw  my  chestnuts  out  of  the  fire.  I  would 
willingly  pay  the  price  of  a  massive  silver  candelabra, 
or  a  set  of  hand-painted  doilies,  to  see  Cynthia 
happily  settled  in  life  with  a  husband  she  could  respect, 
even  if  she  couldn't  love  him.  Besides,  the  number 
of  wives  I  know  whose  hearts  had  been  given  else- 
where when  they  married  another,  and  now  are  so 
fond  of  their  second  best  choices  that  they  won't  even 
let  them  out  of  their  sight  to  attend  the  funeral  of  an 
old  friend  on  New  Year's  Eve,  or  escort  the  governess 
to  church,  shows  that  there  should  be  every  hope  for 
Cynthia.  Marriage  is  like  dipping  into  a  lucky-bag 
— the  smaller  the  hand  the  woman  has,  the  less  chance 
is  there  of  her  drawing  out  the  stuffed  monkey,  or  the 
doll  which  squeaks. 

•  •  •  •  • 

All  my  friends  say  that  I  spend  my  days  in  the 
hopeless  task  of  trying  to  combine  the  two  opposite 
worlds  of  Society  and  Bohemia;  and  they  warn  me 
against  incurring  social  pains  and  penalties  for 
attempting  to  reconcile  such  extremes  of  existence. 
They  would,  in  effect,  imprison  me  within  the  narrow 
confines  of  a  particular  rank  in  life,  on  the  assump- 
tion, I  suppose,  that  any  one  adventurous  enough  to 
stray  beyond  the  pale  of  the  environment  into  which 
he  was  born,  to  encounter  other  humanities  and 
creeds,  will  return  from  his  pilgrimage  across  that 
borderland  in  revolt  against  the  code  ruling  his  former 
state,  and  import  alien  ideas  shocking  to  the  tastes 
and  habits  current  there.  But  eccentricity  is  not 


86  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

originality,  just  as  to  be  unconventional  does  not 
necessarily  involve  an  appearance  in  the  divorce 
court.  I  have  no  patience  with  the  man  or  woman 
who  willfully  offend  the  susceptibilities  of  friends  in 
order  to  proclaim  their  freedom  from  prejudice,  and 
assert  independence.  It  may  seem  a  strange  thing  to 
say,  but  if  I  were  a  married  man  anxious  to  prove  my 
belief  that  the  wedding  service  was  the  fetich  of  a 
decadent  civilization,  I  wouldn't  take  "  Number  Two"*' 
to  supper  at  the  Savoy.  In  the  same  way  were  I  more 
in  sympathy  with  the  politics  of  the  New  Cut  .than  of 
Mayfair,  I  would  prefer  not  to  wave  the  Red  Flag  at 
a  Park  Lane  dinner  table.  When  I'm  in  Rome  I  do 
as  the  Romans  do,  even  though  the  toga  doesn't  suit 
my  figure,  and  makes  walkfng  diffic'ult. .  " //  faut 
souffrir  pour  etre  belle,"  and  to  have  a  good  time. 
All  the  same  .there  is»no  triumph  so  great  as  the  attain- 
ment of  the  apparently  impossible,  the  founding  of  a 
salon/  say,  on  the  ruins  of  the  old '  regime.  Any 
hostess  can  get  -dukes  to  meg t  dukes ;  the  problem  is 
to  introduce  dukes  to  dustmen. 

All  of  which  is  a  mere  literary  prelude  to  the  an- 
nouncement that  Steward  dined » with  me  the  other 
night  to  meet  the  Bellews.  I  had  seen  the  Southlands' 
motor  standing  in  Bond  Street,  and  remembering  the 
social  obligations  under 'which  she  had  laid  me,  I 

waited  till  Mrs.  B came  out  of  her  jeweler's,  and 

invited  her  and  a  daughter  for  the  following  evening. 
Mrs.  Bellew  has  always  prided  herself  on  keeping  an 
open  mind,  which,  in  practice,  takes  the  form  of  com- 
bining the  position  of  Dame  President  of  the  local 
Primrose  League  Habitation  with  the  Chairmanship 
of  a  Browning  Society  in  Pont  Street,  and  of  letting 
her  girls  read  anything  they  like. 


MARCH  87 

Philosophers  and  wise  men  through  the  ages  have 
endeavored  to  locate  the  seat  of  the  soul  in  the  human 
body,  but  without  success.  I  know  exactly  where  it 
lies,  so  I  ordered  the  following  menu.  I  flatter  myself 
that  the  author  of  The  Gourmet's  Guide  to  Europe 
couldn't  beat  it. 

Bisque  d'Ecrevisses. 
Sole  aux  Crevettes. 
Perdreau  Casserole. 

Salade. 
daces  Orange. 

Friandises. 

•• 

Mrs.!  Bellew  was  obviously  disconcerted  by 
Steward's  turn-down  collars,  and  "  made-up  "  white 
tie,  but  His  tactful  manner,  and  appropriate  choice  of 
an  introductory  topic  dispelled  her  doubts,  till  the 
aroma  of  the  crayfish  soup  put  her  quite  at  her  ease. 
The  fact  that  he  was  the  librettist  of  the  "  Alcazar " 
musical  play  gave  my  old  Fleet  Street  colleague  a 
glamour  in  the  eyes  of  Sybil  Bellew,  and  mafte  her 
ply  him  with  erudite  questions  on  the  \vays  of  the 
stage,  in  the  framing  of  which  she  showed  an  alarm- 
ing knowledge  of  the  contemporary  French  drama, 
and  the  latest  cause  celebre.  As  a  type  of  precocious 
maidenhood  she  was  new  to  Steward,  and  I  could  see 
that  he  was  making  a  study  of  her,  while  he  displayed 
an  unwonted  deferential  manner,  addressing  her  as 
"  my  dear  young  lady."  Her  mother  was  a  couple  of 
courses  in  getting  her  bearings  right.  Mrs.  Bellew 
only  enters  on  conversational  duels  as  a  principal, 
never  a  second,  however  unequal  her  powers  be  to 
sustain  the  position.  She  feels  she  owes  it  as  a  duty 
to  her  sex  and  class  never  to  acknowledge  intellectual 
inferiority,  either  in  monologue  or  repartee.  Per- 
sonally, I  gibber  at  her.  She  mistakes  nonsense  for 


88  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

cleverness,  just  as  with  some  people  a  catch  phrase  like 
"  I  don't  think  "  passes  for  humor. 

Steward  early  won  Mrs.  Bellew's  respect  by  defin- 
ing a  Conservative  as  "  a  Liberal  with  a  public-school 
education,"  and  held  her  attentive  to  his  speculation 
as  to  the  most  appetizing  culinary  description  in  litera- 
ture, which  he  decided  in  favor  of  the  hermit's  venison 
pasty  in  Ivanhoe.  We  progressed  through  a  variety 
of  topics,  comprising  the  rival  merits  of  Nikisch  and 
Mottl  as  conductors,  the  best  wine  to  drink  with  fish, 
when  "  rose  du  Barry "  would  come  in  again  as  the 
fashionable  color,  the  place  of  the  nude  in  art  (during 
which  discussion  I  tactfully  engaged  Sybil  Bellew  in  a 
verbal  sparring  match),  and  the  Negro  Problem  in  the 
States. 

By  the  time  the  last-named  subject  was  under  dis- 
cussion Mrs.  Bellew  had  thoroughly  aroused  Steward's 
sense  of  mischief.  He  had  talked  his  best  to  uncom- 
prehending ears,  and  to  find  the  conversation  con- 
tinually turned  from  the  point  at  issue  by  fatuous 
feminine  interjections.  No  one  likes  to  have  his  sallies 
spoiled  by  another's  density,  least  of  all  Steward. 
Needless  to  say,  Mrs.  Bellew  was  enjoying  herself 
hugely.  She  was  meeting  on  equal  terms,  so  she 
imagined,  a  stimulating  wit  and  raconteur,  and  giving 
a  Roland  for  his  Oliver.  She  introduced  the  Negro 
Problem  to  our  notice  apropos  of  the  bunches  of  mus- 
catel and  black  grapes  that  the  waiter  had  placed  before 
us,  the  kind  of  association  of  ideas  to  which  she  was 
liable.  Steward  had  suggested  that  the  solution  would 
only  come  from  the  negro  race  itself,  when  Mrs.  Bel- 
lew  remarked,  with  an  air  of  engaging  originality, 
".White  is  white,  and  black  is  black,  you  know." 

"  But  the  whiteness  of  the  white  is  not  equal  to  the 


MARCH  89 

blackness  of  the  black,"  Steward  replied,  with  admir- 
able gravity. 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out  ?  "  queried  the  lady  in 
a  puzzled  voice. 

"When  I  was  a  child,"  he  said,  "I  had  a  negro 
'  mammy '  for  a  nurse." 

"That  does  make  a  difference,  of  course."  Mrs. 
Bellew  was  trying  to  regain  her  hold  over  the  con- 
versation. 

"  The  black  pigment  in  the  skin  of  the  negro,"  con- 
tinued the  unabashed  journalist,  "  is  responsible  not 
only  for  his  racial  characteristics,  but  also  for  the 
essential  qualities  differentiating  him  from  the  Euro- 
pean-bred American.  The  Greeks  attributed  definite 
action  to  the  bile  present  in  the  human  body,  speaking 
of  *  black  care '  and  *  black  jealousy/  physical  and 
mental  conditions  which  they  thought  arose  directly 
from  that  secretion.  Now,  if  scientists  could  only 
extract  the  coloring  matter  from  the  skin  of  the  negro, 
there  would  be  no  such  problem  as  we  have  been  speak- 
ing of." 

Mrs.  Bellew's  face  lighted  up  intelligently.  Her 
expression  had  been  very  downcast  a  moment  before. 

"In  other  words,  if  the  negroes  could  be  made 
white,  there  would  be  no  longer  any  blacks  to  have 
a  problem?" 

"  You  take  my  meaning  exactly."  Steward  didn't 
turn  a  hair  as  he  said  it. 

I  burst  out  into  explosive  laughter.  Mrs.  Bellew 
looked  at  me  in  astonishment.  Like  a  drowning  man 
I  clutched  at  a  straw — a  cheese  straw,  and  simulated  a 
paroxysm  of  choking. 

Mrs.  Bellew  must  have  suspected  the  violence  of  my 
gurglings,  for  she  rose  with  a  heightened  color. 


90  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

"Shall  we  go  into  the  lounge?"  she  asked.  "It's 
getting  rather  hot  in  here." 

We  moved  accordingly.  Even  then  Steward  was 
not  to  be  restrained  from  explaining  to  Mrs.  Bellew, 
who  was  prepared  to  believe  anything  that  fell  from 
his  lips,  that  the  first  violin  was  a  leader  of  the 
Camorra  who  had  murdered  a  Neapolitan  bishop,  but 
had  had  his  appeal  against  extradition  allowed.  He 
also  pointed  out  an  elderly  gentleman  across  the  hall 
as  the  most  vitriolic  and  celebrated  dramatic  critic  of 
the  day.  Then  he  described  how  the  reporters  of  his 
paper  sat  transcribing  their  copy  with  pannikins  of 
absinthe  before  them,  and  how  the  staff  of  the  postal 
district  in  which  the  "  Alcazar  "  was  situated  had  had 
to  be  strengthened  to  deal  with  the  extra  work  en- 
tailed by  the  proposals  of  marriage  that  poured  in  for 
the  chorus  of  the  Bird  in  the  Bush.  Steward,  in  short, 
tore  the  veil  from  Mrs.  Bellew's  eyes,  and  showed  her 
a  London  more  wonderful  than  the  Bagdad  of  the 
Caliph. 

"  It's  been  the  most  enjoyable  of  evenings,"  sHe  ex- 
claimed, on  parting.  "  I  didn't  know  you  had  such 
entertaining  friends  as  Mr.  Steward." 

"I  didn't  know  it  myself,"  I  replied,  "until  to- 
night." 

Steward  was  thoroughly  pleased  with  the  whole 
thing.  "East  of  Trafalgar  Square,"  he  told  me, 
"  one's  sense  of  perspective  is  apt  to  get  distorted." 

"  You  mean,"  I  interrupted,  "  your  sense  of  humor 
is  apt  to  get  out  of  control  west  of  it.  It's  not  your 
fault  that  I'm  still  on  Mrs.  Bellew's  visiting  list." 

But  Steward  wouldn't  see  it  in  that  light,  and  began 
to  talk  of  missionary  work  amongst  the  aristocracy. 
I  know  one  thing.  I  should  precious  soon  organize  a 
massacre  of  the  converts. 


APRIL 


'For  one  woman  who  inspires  us  with  worthy  ideas  there  are 
a  hundred  who  cause  us  to  make  fools  of  ourselves" — 
NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE. 


APRIL1 

Mrs.  Mallow  checkmates — Cynthia  Cochrane  makes 
another  Conquest — "A   Young  Man's  Fancy" 

I  HAVE  no  intention  of  calling  at  Porchester  Ter- 
race again,  but  I  will  say  this  for  my  short  acquaint- 
ance with  Mrs.  Ponting-Mallow — it  has  taught  me 
that  a  pretty  woman  is  a  law  unto  herself.  If  she  likes 
to  darken  her  eyebrows,  powder  her  face  thickly 
against  the  rigors  of  an  English  spring,  and  go  about 
with  individuals  other  than  her  husband  announcing 
that  she  is  determined  at  all  costs  "  to  be  in  things," 
who  is  to  say  her  nay?  No  man,  certainly;  and  for 
the  opinion,  good,  bad  or  indifferent,  of  her  own  sex 
Julia  Mallow  doesn't  care  one  straw.  "  Women  are 
such  cats,"  the  lady  once  remarked  to  me,  but  she  used 
the  phrase  in  forgetfulness  of  the  fact  that  she  herself 
concealed  the  sharpest  of  sharp  claws,  and  was  not 
slow  to  bare  them  against  the  reputation  of  a  rival. 
Where  I  was  to  blame  was  not  in  making  a  fool  of 
myself — a  person  who  isn't  guilty  of  that  in  his  youth 
is  laying  up  the  dullest  of  dull  old  ages  for  himself — 
but  in  thinking  that  nobody  would  see  me  doing  it 

I  had  been  under  the  impression  that  the  invitation 
conveyed  through  the  medium  of  the  parrot  when  I 
had  found  myself  in  the  boudoir  at  Porchester  Terrace 
between  Mr.  Mallow  and  the  deep  sea  had  been  an 
invitation  to  a  matinee  at  Daly's,  and  a  matinee  only. 
Mrs.  Ponting-Mallow,  however,  took  it  to  include 
lunch  before,  tea  afterward,  and  then  a  long  hansom 

93 


94  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

drive  back  across  the  Park,  in  spite  of  my  obvious 
reluctance  to  go  so  far  out  of  my  way. 

"And  when  are  you  coming  again  to  let  a  quiet 
little  mouse  thank  you  for  taking  it  out  to  see  life?" 
asked  the  lady,  as  I  was  bidding  her  good-by  on  the 
doorstep,  with  an  arch  and  fantastic  playfulness  that  I 
was  quite  unable  to  parry. 

I  had  had  a  full  five  hours  of  Mrs.  Mallow's  artificial 
curls  and  conversation,  been  enlightened  on  the  rami- 
fications of  her  various  male  friendships,  entrusted 
with  confidences  on  her  social  ambitions,  her  husband's 
shortcomings,  her  season's  gowns,  her  old  grievances, 
and  her  new  cook,  and  I  was  in  as  urgent  need  of  an 
armchair,  a  cigar,  and  a  string  of  oaths,  as  a  man 
with  a  bullet  through  the  head  is  of  surgical  treatment. 
So,  clutching  the  area  rail,  I  murmured  incoherently 
something  about  its  being  "no  kindness  at  all,  only  a 
pleasure." 

That  little  woman  displayed  the  ruthless  cruelty  of 
Nana  Sahib,  and  asked  me  to  call  the  following  after- 
noon. I  replied  that  I  was  engaged.  Would  the  day 
after  that  suit  me?  It  wouldn't.  Then  Sunday?  I 
should  be  out  of  town. 

"  Are  you  tired  of  me  already?  "  pouted  Mrs.  Mal- 
low, speaking  the  true  word  in  jest. 

"How  can  you  think  of  such  a  thing? "  I  hastened 
to  protest,  with  the  hypocrisy  demanded  by  politeness. 
"  I'll  come  to  tea  to-morrow,  if  I  may." 

The  tea  wasn't  such  an  ordeal  as  I  had  anticipated. 
Mrs.  Ponting-Mallow  at  home  took  on  a  quieter  tone 
than  when  abroad  and  bent  on  impressing  her  neigh- 
bors in  theater  and  restaurant.  Being  less  intent  on 
pleasing,  she  pleased  the  more.  Also,  she  had  the 
tact  to  efface  herself,  and  allow  me  to  talk,  with  the 


APRIL  95 

added  flattery  of  seeming  to  seelc  my  advice  on  the 
subject  of  Ponting-Mallow. 

I  told  my  hostess  that  all  husbands  were  trying, 
since  only  the  weaker  specimens  of  my  sex  surrendered 
the  right  of  the  bachelor  to  express  admiration  of 
beauty  wherever  found. 

I  hadn't  meant  that  remark  as  a  compliment  to  Mrs. 
Mallow,  but  she  took  it  as  one. 

"  If  you  were  married  you  wouldn't  be  having  tea 
in  my  boudoir.  Aren't  you  pleased  that  you  are  still 
single  ?  "  she  said,  and  smiled  at  me. 

Certainly  it  was  a  new  sensation  to  meet  a  woman 
who  gave  one  a  lead  over  conversational  fences  as 
Mrs.  Mallow  did.  But  I  wasn't  out  to  take  risks  that 
afternoon — or  any  afternoon  where  she  was  concerned. 
I  began  to  be  a  little  frightened  of  the  lady.  She  put 
on  the  ingenue  air  as  crudely  as  she  did  the  powder  on 
her  nose. 

"  I  don't  see  what  being  married  has  to  do  with  it," 
I  replied,  with  gross  inconsistency,  in  my  anxiety  to 
disarm  the  compliment.  "  Mayn't  a  man  and  a  woman 
have  tea  together?  " 

"  Of  course ;  there's  no  harm  in  it ! "  Mrs.  Mallow 
gave  me  a  look  that  belied  her  words.  "  That  is,  if 
people  are  sensible." 

I  held  my  peace, — not  that  my  feelings  were  very 
peaceful.  Quite  the  reverse. 

"Are  you  sensible,  Mr.  Hanbury?"  The  lady 
cleared  the  obstacle  with  one  question. 

"  I  wasn't  when  I  promised  to  come  to  tea,  but  I'm 
going  to  begin  to  be  sensible  now."  With  this  I 
got  up. 

"  Surely  you're  not  going  yet  ?  "  Mrs.  Mallow 
struck  a  note  of  annoyance  that  was  out  of  place  in  a 


96  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

frivolous  conversation.  "  Ponting  won't  be  back  from 
the  club  for  hours." 

"  I  deeply  regret  Having  to  leave  you  alone  for  so 
long,"  I  said,  with  mock  gravity,  "  but  duty  calls  me 
away." 

It  did, — duty  to  Ponting;  although*  that  wouldn't 
have  worried  me  if  duty  to  an  absentee  husband  hadn't 
also  coincided  with  my  duty  to  myself. 

Mrs.  Pont  ing-Mallow  actually  stamped  her  foot. 

"  It's  too  silly  of  you  behaving  like  this.  I  thought 
we  were  going  to  be  such  friends." 

"  So  we  are,"  I  replied,  "  in  this  way."  And  I  shook 
her  hand  in  token  of  departure. 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean."  Mrs.  Mallow  tossed 
her  fair  head  with  the  petulance  of  a  spoiled  child. 

I  looked  past  the  artificially  darkened  line  of  her 
brows  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"  Frankly,  I  do,"  I  said,  "  but  we'll  play  the  game 
by  my  rules,  or  not  at  "all." 

Every  man  gets  the  luck  he  deserves.  At  the  end 
of  the  street  I  met  Ponting-Mallow. 

That  was  to  have  been  the  end  of  Madame  Mallow, 
so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  since  enough  is  as  good  as 
a  feast,  and  I  had  no  mind  to  take  up  the  role  of  "  lap- 
dog  "  assigned  to  me.  It  was  sheer  ill-fortune,  there- 
fore, that  not  ten  days  later  I  should  have  found  the 
lady  at  a  subscription  dance  in  Kensington,  and  that 
she  should  have  nodded  instant  and  cordial  recognition 
from  the  arm  of  her  partner  of  the  moment.  By  all 
the  canons  of  convention,  and  on  the  strength  of  such 
knowledge  of  the  sex  as  is  contained  in  the  line,  "  Hell 
knows  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned,"  I  ought  to  have 
received  the  cut  direct,  and  a  contemptuous  curl  of  the 
lip  from  Julia  Mallow. 

"Confound  it  all! "  I  muttered. 


APRIL  97 

Haines,  whose  new-born  enthusiasm  for  the  "  light 
fantastic  "  had  been  responsible  for  my  presence  there 
that  night,  caught  the  exclamation. 

"  What's  up  ?  "  he  asked,  interested. 

"That!"  and  I  pointed  out  Mrs.  Mallow  as  she 
swung  past  us. 

"The  very  pretty  little  woman  in  the  creme  de 
menthe  costume,  who  gave  you  the  glad  eye  ?  " 

Was  I  after  all  in  danger  of  throwing  away  the 
pearl  of  great  price  ? 

"  Is  she  very  pretty?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  so  dusty ! "  replied  Haines,  who  is  wont  to 
sacrifice  lucidity  of  expression  in  order  to  indulge  his 
fondness  for  verbal  eccentricities. 

"  The  other  day,"  I  explained,  "  I  gave  Mrs.  Pont- 
ing-Mallow  *  No '  for  an  answer  when  she  wanted 
'  Yes,'  and  if  I  retract  there'll  be  the  devil  to  pay. 
She's  married." 

"The  devil  is  a  lenient  creditor,"  retorted  Haines, 
with  a  pungent  wit.  "  We  all  have  our  little  accounts 
with  him." 

"  I  can't  afford  a  hundred  per  cent  for  the  loan. 
Besides,  I've  got  no  security  to  offer." 

Haines  turned  an  amused  look  on  me. 

"  Security,  Hanbury  ?  Surely  you  of  all  people  don't 
want  security?  'Nothing  venture,  nothing  have/ 
you  know ! " 

"  If  that's  your  opinion,  Archie,"  I  whispered  hur- 
riedly, "  I'm  going  to  introduce  you,  for  here  she 
comes." 

As  Mrs.  Mallow,  en  route  for  the  cool  corridor  of 
the  hotel,  passed  through  the  doorway  against  which 
Haines  and  myself  stood,  I  waylaid  her  and  effected 
my  purpose. 

"  How  strange  to  meet  you  here ! "   remarked   the 


98 

lady,  while  Haines  bent  gallantly  over  her  programme. 
The  epithet  jarred  on  me.  Why  not  "  pleasant,"  or 
even  "charming"?  Haines  was  quite  right — Julia 
Mallow  was  pretty,  and  the  vivid  green  of  her  dress 
suited  her  admirably.  Was  it  still  too  late  to  be  friends 
again — just  friends?  I  compromised  with  my  con- 
science, and  booked  a  dance.  Then,  leaving  Haines 
to  his  own  resources,  I  went  to  smoke  a  cigarette  and 
analyze  my  feelings.  The  process  took  some  time. 

When  I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  scene  of  action  I 
did  so  with  the  conviction  that  Haines  had  accurately 
gauged  the  situation.  I  had  been  far  too  precipitate 
in  reading  a  woman's  motives.  Tied  to  a  bear  of  a 
husband,  Mrs.  Mallow  had  only  wished  congenial  com- 
panionship from  me,  and  a  spice  of  that  chivalrous 
sympathy  which  a  man  should  always  be  ready  to 
extend  to  beauty  in  distress.  I  was  prepared  to  offer 
the  fullest  reparation  in  my  power.  The  refrain  of 
"  Kiss  again  with  tears "  kept  running  through  my 
mind,  as  though  in  some  way  it  was  applicable  to  the 
situation.  I  couldn't  see  the  connection.  Mrs.  Mal- 
low might.  I  determined  to  ask  her. 

I  met  Mrs.  Ponting-Mallow  and  Haines  descending 
the  stairs,  as  the  waltz — my  waltz — struck  up.  They 
looked  extremely  pleased  with  themselves — too  pleased. 

"You'll  come  and  call,  won't  you?"  Mrs.  Mallow 
said,  as  I  appeared. 

Haines  overdid  the  enthusiasm  in  his  reply.  Before 
I  could  stay  him  he  was  lost  in  the  crowd  pressing 
into  the  ballroom. 

"  Is  there  a  convenient  sofa  upstairs?"  I  asked  my 
partner.  "  I  suppose  we're  not  going  to  dance  this  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mallow  gave  me  a  curious  glance.  "  Oh,  yes, 
we  are,"  she  replied.  "  Every  bar  of  it." 


APRIL;  99 

I  put  all  the  appeal  I  was  capable  of  into  my  voice. 
"  Won't  you  sit  it  out  ?  I've  got  so  much  to  say  to 
you — about  the  other  afternoon."  I  faltered  in  spite 
of  myself. 

"I  insist  upon  dancing1.  It  will  save  you  making 
conversation  to  me." 

Before  I  could  probe  the  inward  meaning  of  her 
remark  Julia  Mallow  had  dragged  me  into  the  current, 
and  for  twelve  minutes  by  the  clock  I  twisted  and 
turned  round  that  infernal  room,  till  my  collar  melted 
and  my  hair  stood  on  end.  Ever  and  again  my  partner 
would  turn  up  her  face  to  smile  at  me,  till  I  knew  that 
Tantalus  had  had  a  pretty  rotten  time  of  it  in  Hades. 

But  even  the  agony  of  the  dance  was  preferable  to 
the  tortures  Mrs.  Mallow  inflicted  on  me  during  the 
interval  which  followed.  Refusing  to  sit  in  any  less 
conspicuous  spot  than  the  big  hall  of  the  hotel,  the 
lady  seemed  possessed  by  a  mocking  spirit.  I  could 
neither  make  her  become  serious  herself,  nor  take  me 
seriously.  So  soon  as  ever  I  approached  topics  which 
promised  well  for  an  explanation  on  my  part  as  to  my 
previous  attitude  toward  her,  Mrs.  Mallow  steered 
the  conversation  on  to  the  shallows,  to  wreck  it  com- 
pletely on  such  a  subject  as  the  rival  merits  of  Dandy 
Dinmonts  and  bobtailed  sheep  dogs  for  keeping  down 
rats. 

"  I  can't  make  you  out  at  all,"  I  said,  disgust  at 
Mrs.  Mallow's  conduct  my  prevailing  sentiment,  as  I 
escorted  her  back  at  the  summons  of  the  band.  "  Once 
I  was  under  the  impression  that  we  got  on  rather  well 
together." 

"  We  all  form  wrong  judgments  at  times,  Mr.  Han- 
bury.  Now  I  made  a  mistake  about  you." 

"A  mistake?"    I  repeated  it  feebly. 


100  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 


.. 


Yes!"  Mrs.  Mallow  gave  a  malicious  emphasis 
to  the  simple  affirmative.  "Your  man-o'-the-world 
air  deceived  me.  I  didn't  really  mean  to  frighten  you, 
though." 

In  a  whirl  of  amazement  I  stopped  dead.  "  I  fright- 
ened? .What  at?" 

"  At  a  married  woman.  That  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence to  you,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mallow  slipped  from  my  side.  When  I  had 
recovered  sufficiently  from  the  stormy  emotions  she 
had  aroused  to  look  around  me,  it  was  to  see  her 
dancing  with  Haines. 

Scorned — and  supplanted,  I  shook  the  dust  of  that 
ballroom  from  my  feet  and  left. 

When  I  next  saw  Haines  he  was  eating  crumpets  in 
the  club.  I  pounced  on  him  in  feverish  curiosity  and 
taxed  him  with  contriving  the  mystery  of  Mrs.  Mal- 
low's callousness.  Haines  received  the  assault  with 
the  surprise  of  an  innocent  person,  but  his  first  words 
convicted  him. 

"  Thank  me,"  he  said,  "  for  saving  you  from  your 
worse  self.  You  as  good  as  told  me  that  you  wanted 
rescuing  from  the  machinations  of  a  woman,  old  fel- 
low, so  I  did  the  trick." 

"  It  was  a  trick,"  I  retorted,  "  and  a  dirty  one." 

"  Come  now,  Hanbury,  my  friend,  be  just  if  you 
can't  be  generous."  And  Haines  carefully  brushed 
the  crumbs  off  his  coat.  "  You  were  hovering  on  the 
brink  of  temptation,  I  only  pushed  you  back  into 
safety." 

"  I  don't  want  safety." 

That  was  the  truth ;  I  didn't. 

"I  knew  that,  but  you've  got  it  now,  in  spite  of 
yourself.  I  gained  you  a  moral  victory  at  the  cost 


APRIL  101 

of  a  defeat  to  your  pride.  I  pictured  you  to  the  lady 
as  a  diffident  Don  Juan,  a  *  fain-would-I-rise-but-that- 
I-fear-to-fall'  sort  of  person,  forever  tiptoeing  along 
the  pleasant  paths  of  dalliance,  but  never  coming  to 
grips  with  the  realities  of  temptation." 

"Anything  more?"  I  put  the  question  in  rising 
indignation  at  the  monstrous  part  Haines  had  played. 

"  Lots !  "  Haines  spoke  cheerfully.  "  I  laid  the 
paint  on  thick.  I  told  Mrs.  Mallow  that  your  brag- 
gadocio air  was  only  an  affectation,  a  mask  concealing 
a  cherub's  face.  Mrs.  Mallow  doesn't  want  cherubs 
at  any  price,  so  you  got  the  chuck." 

"  And  you  told  all  this  infernal  pack  of  lies  in  order 
that  you  might  take  my  place  ?  " 

Haines  raised  a  warning  hand.  "  Steady  there, 
Hanbury,  I  wouldn't  advise  my  worst  enemy  to  play 
number  three  at  Porchester  Terrace." 

"  Hello ! "  I  exclaimed.  "  How  did  your  call  go 
off?" 

"  It  didn't."  Haines'  words  had  the  ring  of  sincerity 
about  them.  "That  husband  of  hers  smoked  like  a 
chimney  all  the  time,  and  read  an  article  on  the 
sources  of  the  Brahmaputra  when  he  wasn't  scrapping 
with  his  wife  over  the  silliest  of  details.  I  was  bored 
stiff.  Not  for  all  the  smiles  in  the  world  would  I  go 
there  again.  You're  welcome  to  the  billet  so  far  as 
I'm  concerned." 

"What  about  'nothing  venture,  nothing  have,' 
Archie?"  After  the  way  he  had  treated  me  I  was 
justified  in  quoting  Haines  against  himself  to  his  own 
discomfiture. 

"  India  has  much  to  answer  for  when  it  sends  men 
home  with  no  livers."  The  remark  sounded  irrele- 
vant, but  I  knew  what  Archie  Haines  meant. 


102  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

"And  when  they  have  young  wives  as  well,"  I 
added,  "the  practice  becomes  a  positive  scandal." 

Then  we  clinked  teacups  to  the  death  and  burial 
of  Ponting-Mallow,  C.S.I.  The  problem  of  dealing 
with  his  widow  was  left  till  the  hypothesis  material- 
ized. 

•  •  •  •  • 

James  Berners,  solicitor,  has  a  lot  to  learn  if  he 
thinks  that,  on  the  strength  of  an  old  friend  like 
myself  having  presented  Miss  Cynthia  Cochrane,  of 
the  "  Alcazar,"  with  a  pair  of  earrings,  he  is  justified 
in  sending  a  diamond  "  dog-collar  "  on  his  own  be- 
half. An  individual  who  is  described  to  his  face  as 
"  silly  old  Gerald  "  is  on  a  very  different  footing  from 
one  to  whom  the  formal  title  of  "  Mr.  Berners  "  is 
accorded.  Berners'  offering  had  been  returned  by  the 
next  post,  but  Cynthia  had  been  ill-advised  enough  to 
dispatch  it  with  a  note  suggesting  that  there  must  have 
been  some  mistake  on  the  part  of  the  shop,  and  ending 
with  the  Parthian  shot  of  congratulations  to  Jimmy 
on  his,  doubtless,  forthcoming  marriage  to  the  lady 
for  whom  the  jewelry  was  really  intended. 

"  Now  you've  let  yourself  in  for  a  dose  of  Berners 
with  a  vengeance,"  I  told  Cynthia,  when  she  had  fin- 
ished her  account  of  the  incident,  on  the  morning  after. 

Cynthia  threw  away  her  cigarette  end  and  lit 
another. 

"  I  couldn't  resist  giving  Jimmy  a  dig,"  she  said. 

"  That  sound  a  dangerous  game  to  play  with  a  man 
who  hasn't  an  ounce  of  humor  in  him,  or  he  wouldn't 
be  still  hanging  round  the  *  Alcazar/  If  Berners 
could  be  laughed  out  of  constancy,  it  would  have  been 
long  ago.  His  persistency  and  obtuseness  will  remove 
far  more  rooted  objections  to  his  company  than  you 


APRIL  103 

entertain.  Mark  my  words,  Cynthia,"  and  I  shook  a 
warning  finger  at  the  girl;  "he'll  be  round  here 
precious  soon  to  explain  that  your  letter  was  written 
under  a  complete  misapprehension,  and  that  his 
present  was  for  your  slender  neck.  What's  more, 
if  you  aren't  careful,  he'll  try  to  clasp  it  there  him- 
self." 

Cynthia's  adorable  little  face  wreathed  itself  in 
smiles  at  the  absurdity  of  my  suggestion.  Her  merri- 
ment died  away  in  a  frown  as  the  door-handle  rattled, 
as  only  the  door  handle  in  flats  can,  and  in  walked 
Berners  himself. 

James  Berners  was  wrapped  in  a  fur  coat,  the  im- 
possible collar  of  which  was  formed  of  two  seal  skins, 
others  giving  each  sleeve  the  appearance  of  muffs. 
On  his  head  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees  was  set 
a  Tyrolese  hat,  with  a  cloak-room  ticket  stuck  in  the 
band,  while  a  shock  of  black,  shiny  curls  created  the 
impression  that  Nature  at  his  birth  had  supplied  him 
with  lamb's  wool  instead  of  hair.  He  carried  an  ivory- 
topped  cane  in  his  hand,  a  cauliflower — or  was  it  a 
tomato? — in  his  buttonhole,  and  a  cigar,  in  an  amber 
holder,  stuck  out  from  the  middle  of  his  pale  face, 
with  its  high  cheekbones,  and  broad-based  nose,  like 
the  horn  of  a  rhinoceros.  He  had  but  to  show  himself 
out-of-doors  to  become  another  Joshua,  and  make 
every  living  thing  in  his  immediate  neighborhood  stand 
still  in  amazement. 

In  this  emergency  Cynthia  Cochrane  showed  the 
stuff  she  was  made  of.  She  forestalled  any  remarks 
on  the  part  of  the  apparition  by  rapidly  conveying  to 
Berners  that  he  needn't  have  troubled  to  come  round 
so  early  to  apologize  for  the  jeweler's  stupidity,  that 
she  quite  understood  the  annoyance  he  was  feeling, 


104.  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

that  she  wished  him  every  happiness  in  his  future  life, 
that  it  was  no  use  his  taking  off  his  coat  because  she 
was  just  going  out  herself  to  do  some  shopping,  and 
that  the  weather  was  warm  for  the  time  of  the  year, 
but  that  one  could  never  be  too  careful.  It  was 
masterly,  and  not  a  Chancellery  in  Europe  but  could 
have  profited  by  the  exhibition  of  diplomacy. 

Then,  however,  Cynthia  marred  the  excellence  of 
her  performance  by  checking  me  in  the  act  of  insti- 
tuting a  tactful  retreat  in  order  to  introduce  me  to 
Berners.  A  friend  of  mine  had  consulted  Jimmy 
Berners  in  a  case  of  blackmail,  and  I  had,  on  one  occa- 
sion, inadvertently  gone  off  with  an  umbrella  of  his 
from  the  "  Alcazar"  and  failed  to  return  it  because 
the  handle  pleased  me.  But  as  these  two  facts  even 
taken  together  hardly  constituted  acquaintanceship, 
I  swallowed  my  scruples  and  submitted  to  the  for- 
mality for  Cynthia's  sake.  I  grasped  a  fat,  flabby  hand, 
fringed  with  onyx  signet  rings,  and  remarked  that  I 
had  often  heard  of  him  from  Cynthia — Miss  Cochrane, 
as  I  corrected  it  to,  lest  Berners  might  copy  me  in  this, 
as  well  as  in  earrings. 

While  Cynthia  had  been  speaking,  Berners  had 
never  taken  his  gaze  off  her,  and  so  manifestly  was 
he  under  the  spell  of  her  presence  that  he  barely  gave 
me  the  courtesy  of  a  glance  lest  he  should  lose  a  single 
gesture  or  expression  of  his  adored  one.  Such 
dumb  devotion  was  touching,  but  it  had  the  disad- 
vantage of  preventing  the  intruder  from  realizing  that 
he  was  as  unwelcome  a  visitor  as  his  diamonds  had 
been. 

"  You  mustn't  let  me  waste  any  more  of  your  time," 
remarked  Cynthia  impatiently,  after  Berners  had  stood 
in  the  open  door  for  a  full  five  minutes,  as  motionless 


APRIL  105 

as  a  wooden  Highlander  outside  a  tobacconist's,  and 
it  became  evident  he  had  no  intention  of  leaving  the 
flat  of  his  own  initiative.  "  I  suppose  you've  got  your 
car  waiting  below  ?  "  she  asked. 

Some  hidden  spring  in  Berners'  memory  was 
touched  by  this  question,  for  he  advanced  into  the 
room,  put  his  hat  on  the  table,  and  spoke  for  the  first 
time. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Cochrane,"  he  began,  "  your  send- 
ing back  the  little  gift " 

(I  liked  that,  when  at  least  two  hundred  of  the 
"best"  had  gone  to  its  purchase!) 

" — has  given  me  the  pleasure  of  coming  round  in 
person  to  explain." 

Jimmy  spoke  with  an  exaggerated  care  and  pre- 
cision, as  though  he  was  struggling  to  avoid  falling 
into  the  vulgar  colloquialisms  more  natural  to  him. 
His  coarse,  vigorous  self,  in  its  trappings  of  luxury 
and  wealth,  created  the  effect  of  a  pebble  set  in  gold. 
From  Cynthia's  own  account  he  was  none  the  less 
likable,  an  excellent  companion,  shrewd  and  enter- 
taining. Only  where  she  was  concerned  did  his  wits 
desert  him,  to  give  an  impression  of  folly.  And 
certainly  he  was  doing  a  very  foolish  thing  at  that 
moment. 

"  There  was  no  mistake,  my  dear  Miss  Cochrane," 
Berners  continued,  in  what  was  meant  to  be  a  honied 
voice,  but  which  only  succeeded  in  being  insinuating; 
"  there  was  no  mistake ; "  and  diving  into  his  pocket 
he  produced  the  identical  box  in  which  the  ill-omened 
jewelry  had  arrived. 

Cynthia  sounded  a  note  which  I  had  never  heard 
from  her  before. 

"If  there  was  no  mistake  I  should  be  very  angry 


106  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

indeed,  Mr.  Berners, — so  angry  that  you  would  never 
speak  to  me  again." 

Berners'  sallow  countenance  turned  even  paler,  and 
took  on  a  look  of  genuine  alarm.  His  hand,  clasping 
the  box  of  jewelry,  hovered  nervously  on  the  edge 
of  his  pocket,  and  then  vanished  into  its  capacious 
depths.  His  thoughtless  attack  on  his  loved  one's 
self-respect  had  been  repulsed  with  heavy  loss.  With 
its  defeat,  and  the  distress  so  evident  in  the  enemy's 
demeanor,  Cynthia's  kind  heart  relented. 

"I  was  sure,  Mr.  Berners,  there  must  have  been 
something  wrong  somewhere,"  she  said,  holding  out 
her  hand.  "I  don't  allow  anybody  to  insult  me  in 
that  way.  If  you  want  to  remain  friends  with  me  you 
must  never  give  me  anything — except  the  loan  of  your 
motor  car  sometimes." 

Her  strange  visitor  underwent  a  complete  trans- 
formation. From  the  depths  of  despair  he  scaled  the 
heights  of  joy,  as,  taking  Cynthia's  outstretched  fin- 
gers, he  wrung  them. 

"  The  car— that's  it,"  Berners  almost  shouted.  "  It's 
waiting  outside.  Come  along  to  lunch  at  Brighton. 
That's  really  what  I  came  round  for." 

The  ready  hypocrisy  was  forgiven  for  the  sake  of 
the  good  nature  prompting  the  request.  Cynthia 
clapped  her  hands  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  child. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Berners,"  she  cried,  "  how  simply  delight- 
ful of  you.  And,  of  course,  you  mean  Gerald  Han- 
bury  to  come  too.  He  will  behave  quite  nicely,  and 
try  to  be  amusing." 

Thus  prompted,  Berners  extended  his  invitation  to 
myself — not  in  a  very  pressing  manner.  That  could 
hardly  be  expected. 

"  I  shan't  go  without  you,  sir,"  said  Cynthia,  turn- 


APRIL  107 

ing  to  where  I  stood,  reluctant  to  accept  grudging 
hospitality,  and  not  particularly  attracted  by  the  pros- 
pect of  Berners  at  close  quarters  for  the  best  part  of 
a  day.  "  You've  simply  got  to  come.  You  wouldn't 
be  so  selfish  as  to  deprive  me  of  a  treat.  Yes,  of 
course,  he'll  be  overjoyed  to  accept,  Mr.  Berners. 
Thank  you  ever  so  much.  Say  '  Thank  you,'  Gerald." 

I  said,  "  Thank  you." 

Cynthia  departed  to  the  neighboring  room,  where 
to  a  running  commentary  of  delighted  exclamations 
she  effected  her  toilet,  and,  as  we  judged  by  our  sense 
of  hearing,  threw  her  wardrobe  into  a  wild  tangle  in 
the  search  for  necessary  garments,  finally  reappearing 
in  a  sable  coat  and  toque,  with  a  white  motor  veil 
wrapped  over  her  head,  through  which  her  eyes 
sparkled  like  two  stars  seen  through  the  mists  of 
night. 

The  vision  of  Cynthia,  and  her  radiant  spirits,  ban- 
ished every  scruple  as  to  the  wisdom  of  my  taking 
part  in  an  expedition  headed  by  Jimmy  Berners.  I 
forgot  his  vulgarity,  and  his  overcoat,  in  the  overflow- 
ing gayety  of  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  world.  To  the 
echo  of  Cynthia's  laughter,  and  the  music  of  her 
voice,  I  climbed  into  Berners'  car,  and  was  whirled 
away  to  Brighton  with  Beauty  and  the  Beast. 

Once  free  of  London,  Berners  offended  me  less.  He 
couldn't  help  his  personal  appearance,  although  a 
shrewd  person,  such  as  he  was  reputed  to  be,  ought  to 
have  toned  down  its  effect  by  a  quiet  mode  of  dress, 
rather  than  have  heightened  it  by  cramming  on  to  his 
person  as  much  of  his  wealth  as  he  conveniently  could. 
While  Jimmy  directed  his  conversation  to  his  fair 
neighbor  I  was  content  to  turn  my  attention  to  the 
scenery,  looking  its  best  on  a  perfect  spring  day,  and 


108  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

hold  Cynthia's  hand  under  the  rug,  only  speaking 
when  she  drew  me  into  their  idle  chatter,  or  when  an 
assumption  by  Berners  of  undue  proprietorship  over 
the  girl  led  me  to  a  vigorous  assertion  of  my  rights, 
and  a  forcible  explanation  to  him  of  the  inferior  posi- 
tion he  occupied  in  her  estimation.  But  with  this 
one  exception  the  sixty  miles  was  covered  amicably 
enough, — Cynthia  and  Berners  gossiping  on  the  stage 
and  its  concerns,  and  retailing  an  endless  succession 
of  theatrical  anecdotes  that  would  have  proved  the  ruin 
of  the  editor  who  printed  them,  and  made  the  fortune 
of  any  counsel  specializing  in  the  law  of  libel.  Still, 
I  for  one  was  glad  when  we  reached  the  sea,  and  the 
car  came  to  a  standstill  before  the  glass  and  iron- 
wrought  portal  of  the  Cosmopolitan  Hotel.  Cynthia, 
I  have  an  idea,  was  of  the  same  way  of  thinking,  for 
she  squeezed  my  hand,  and  whispered,  "  So  that's 
over,"  as  we  disposed  of  our  wraps  before  proceeding 
to  the  sumptuous  lunch  which  Berners  had  had  the 
forethought  to  order  by  telegraph  before  leaving  town, 
and  to  which,  it  is  superfluous  to  add,  we  did  the  full- 
est justice. 

It  must  have  been  half-past  two  before  the  ices  had 
followed  the  rest  of  the  good  things,  and  we  were  free 
to  stroll  into  the  great  lounge  for  coffee  and  cigars. 
No  sooner  had  we  set  foot  in  the  wilderness  of  palms, 
marble-topped  tables,  red  plush  settees,  and  Persian 
rugs,  crowded  with  a  typical  selection  of  those  who 
think  Brighton  and  the  Cosmopolitan  the  only  place 
in  which  to  spend  a  week-end,  than  my  heart  sank  to 
my  boots,  and  would  have  gone  even  lower  were  such 
a  feat  possible.  For  there,  inside  the  central  cluster 
of  tropical  plants,  from  which  she  could  command 
every  one  and  every  thing,  was  seated,  beyond  all 


APRIL  109 

manner  of  doubt,  the  rotund  and  majestic  form  of 
Lady  Fullard,  her  gaze  riveted — and  for  this  small 
mercy  I  was  devoutly  thankful — on  the  contents  of 
the  daily  paper — the  advertisement  columns,  probably, 
in  search  of  a  new  domestic,  since  Lady  F 's  un- 
controllable temper  and  sarcastic  wit  keep  her  fre- 
quently occupied  in  that  direction.  Sir  John  sat  by 
her,  and  his  health  was  responsible,  no  doubt,  for  the 
amazing  phenomenon  of  his  wife's  presence  at  the 
Cosmopolitan — of  all  places.  They  must  have  lunched 
upstairs  privately,  for  there  had  been  no  sign  of  them 
in  the  restaurant.  Why  couldn't  the  tiresome  old  man 
have  looked  after  his  ailments  better,  and  spared  a 
worthy  young  man  acute  mental  torment?  So  I 
thought,  as  I  looked  around  for  a  secluded  table  out 
of  the  Fullards*  range.  A  sense  of  what  sort  of  tale 
Lady  Fullard  would  tell  of  my  association  with  a  per- 
son of  Berners'  stamp,  who  looked  like  a  son  of  Shy- 
lock  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  dressed  as  a  combina- 
tion of  stage  coster  and  a  millionaire  from  the  Far 
West,  with  his  crimson  waistcoat,  check  suit,  and  the 
precious  stones  he  scattered  over  his  tie  and  fingers, 
brought  out  all  the  coward  in  me.  I  made  for  a  shel- 
tered corner  in  an  alcove,  Cynthia  following  obedi- 
ently enough.  But  Berners  was  up  in  arms  at  once. 
He  had  come  to  Brighton  with  Cynthia  to  be  seen, 
and  he  wasn't  going  to  hide  his  light  under  any  bushel. 
He  protested,  and  loudly,  that  "  it  was  a  bit  thick  to 
come  all  the  way  from  town  to  see  the  swells,  and  then 
creep  behind  a  whacking  great  palm." 

Suspecting  that  there  was  a  method  in  my  madness, 
Cynthia  Cochrane  backed  up  my  choice  of  a  resting- 
place,  but  nothing  would  satisfy  Jimmy  Berners,  whose 
obstinacy  grew  with  every  persuasive  word  addressed 


110  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

him,  but  that  we  should  sit  out  in  the  open,  where 
Lady  Fullard  would  have  seen  me  one  moment,  and 
invented  a  string  of  innuendos  and  hypotheses  about 
my  companions  the  next.  But  all  chance  of  our  carry- 
ing the  day  with  Berners  was  lost  when  a  group  of 
persons  in  the  distance,  whom  I  instantly  recognized 
as  Mason,  the  proprietor  of  the  "  Alcazar,"  with  some 
members  of  his  company,  caught  sight  of  Cynthia 
Cochrane,  and  signified,  by  violent  gestures,  that  she 
and  her  friends  should  join  forces  with  their  party. 
Cynthia  could  hardly  refuse  to  sit  with  her  own  mana- 
ger, even  for  my  sake. 

"  Go  along  to  Mason,"  I  whispered  to  her,  "  and 
take  him  my  love.  I'm  going  into  the  hall  to  wait  for 
you.  There  are  some  people  I  know  sitting  by,  and  I 
daren't  face  the  music  with  that,"  and  I  pointed  sur- 
reptitiously to  Berners,  who  with  his  hands  in  the 
armholes  of  his  waistcoat  displaying  a  yard  of  the 
gold  cable  he  used  as  a  watchchain,  was  standing 
jealously  by  till  my  secret  colloquy  was  ended. 

I  reached  the  front  hall  by  a  circuitous  and  stealthy 
route,  and  began  a  comprehensive  study  of  the  time- 
tables, steamship  guides,  and  excursion  notices  hang- 
ing on  the  walls,  until  I  knew  exactly  the  number  of 
times  one  changed  between  Dunfermline  and  Killaloe, 
and  the  cost  to  a  farthing  of  every  circular  tour  in  the 
ynited  Kingdom.  I  was  beginning  to  go  over  the 
west-coast  watering  places  and  their  lists  of  attrac- 
tions, for  the  third  time,  when  a  sudden  end  was  put 
to  my  researches.  Lady  Fullard  swept  out  of  the 
lounge.  I  tried  to  hide  my  head  in  a  guide-book. 
Vain  folly ! 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Hanbury?"  she  asked,  raising 
her  glasses  to  survey  me  the  better. 


APRIL  111 

I  would  have  denied  the  fact  if  I  could,  but  I 
couldn't.  Lady  Fullard  knew  I  wasn't  a  twin. 

"  Are  you  staying  here  ?  "  Lady  Fullard  went  on. 

"Only  for  the  day." 

I  saw  she  was  about  to  ask  another  question.  A 
courage  born  of  despair  rose  in  me.  "By  myself," 
I  added.  "  My  tonsils  are  a  little  weak  and  require 
sea  air." 

I  gave  a  feeble  cough  to  prove  the  truth  of  my  as- 
sertion. Tonsils,  I  believe,  were  to  be  found  in  one's 
throat.  Or  was  it  jonquils?  The  doubt  con- 
fused me. 

"  My  mother,"  I  said,  "  wished  to  be  remembered  to 
you.  I  must  go  off  and  fetch  her ;  good-by." 

"  But  a  moment  ago  you  had  come  down  here  alone, 
Mr.  Hanbury ! "  pursued  Lady  Fullard,  with  un< 
feminine  logic. 

"  When  I  said  I  was  in  Brighton  alone,"  I  stam- 
mered, "  I  meant  I  was  with  my  mother." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Hanbury?" 

The  waiter,  coming  up  to  Lady  Fullard,  saved  me 
from  an  answer,  which,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  was  un- 
able to  frame.  I  felt  grateful  to  him.  A  second  later 
I  could  have  slain  the  idiot,  as  he  held  out  a  silver 
salver  upon  which  lay  a  gold  net  purse  containing  a 
powder  puff.  It  was  Cynthia's. 

"  This  was  found  under  your  chair,  madame,"  the 
man  explained. 

Lady  Fullard  glared  menacingly  at  him. 

The  fellow  paused  with  a  puzzled  expression. 
"  Weren't  you  lunching  with  this  gentleman  ?  "  and 
he  turned  inquiringly  to  me.  What  a  question  to  ask ! 

"Gerald,  where  are  you?"  rang  out  in  Cynthia's 
clear  tones.  "  Hurrah,  there's  my  purse,  I  thought 


TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

you  had  it,  Gerald.  I  beg  your  pardon,"  an'd  catching 
sight  of  Lady  Fullard  the  girl  stopped  short. 

Cynthia  Cochrane  made  a  perfect  picture,  her  cheeks 
flushed  with  health  and  happiness,  her  eyes  flashing 
the  most  dangerous  of  glances,  distinction  and  grace 
in  every  line  and  pose  of  her  figure.  Even  Lady  Ful- 
lard's  grim  features  relaxed.  As  for  me,  I  didn't  care 
what  happened. 

"Lady  Fullard,"  I  explained,  "may  I  introduce 
Miss  Cynthia  Cochrane  of  the  *  Alcazar,'  one  of  my 
oldest  friends!  Cynthia,  this  is  Lady  Fullard,  who 
lectures  me,  disapproves  of  my  goings-on,  and  thinks 
I'm  an  idle  scapegrace!  Tell  her  I'm  not  as  bad  as 
all  that." 

For  a  moment  the  two  women  faced  each  other  in 
an  embarrassed  silence,  then  Lady  Fullard  took  Cyn- 
thia's hand  in  hers  and  patted  it. 

"  I'm  glad  to  have  met  you,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
almost  tenderly.  "  I  thought  what  unusual  ability  you 
showed  when  I  saw  your  performance  the  other  night. 
I'm  sure  you're  as  good  as  you're  pretty.  Friendship 
with  you  won't  do  Gerald  Hanbury  any  harm." 

Cynthia's  exuberant  spirits  had  given  place  to  a 
more  subdued  mood  as  the  elder  woman  was  speaking. 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  such  good  things,"  she  said 
softly.  "  People  aren't  always  so  sympathetic  to  those 
of  us  on  the  stage  as  you  are.  I'm  very  grateful  to 
you,  not  only  for  my  own  sake,  but  for  Gerald's  as 
well,  dear  Lady  Fullard." 

A  wave  of  appreciation  for  Lady  Fullard's  action 
overwhelmed  me. 

"  I'll  never  forget  your  saying  that  to  Cynthia,"  I 
muttered,  my  voice  unaccountably  gone;  "you're  a 
brick!" 


'APRIU  113 

"  I  must  go  back  to  Sir  John,"  remarked  Lady  Ful- 
lard,  with  a  touch  of  inconsequence  that  was  the  truest 
tact.  "  He'll  think  I've  got  lost,"  and  with  a  parting 
smile  at  Cynthia  she  moved  away. 

When  she  had  passed  out  of  sight  I  turned  to 
Cynthia,  her  gayety  evaporated,  her  head  downcast. 

"  My  dearest  Cynthia,"  I  said  in  the  steadiest  tone 
I  could  command,  "you'll  never  score  a  bigger 
triumph  than  you  have  just  won." 

And  if  she  lives  to  be  a  hundred  she  never  will. 

•  •  •  •  • 

A  successful  son,  I  take  it,  falls  in  with  his  parents' 
wishes,  when  they  coincide  with  his  own,  and  conceals 
any  divergence  of  opinion  that  may  disclose  itself  be- 
tween the  generations,  by  saying  little  though  he  may 
think  the  more.  If  so  I  am  a  failure.  I  went  down 
to  spend  Easter  at  home,  knowing  very  well  that  I 
was  giving  hostages  by  affording  my  father  and  mother 
the  opportunity  they  had  long  awaited  for  personally 
pressing  on  me  their  views  as  to  my  future,  matri- 
monial and  professional,  and  which  my  talents  as  an 
elusive  letter  writer  had  hitherto  postponed.  But  I 
stood  sorely  in  need  of  a  spell  of  quiet  after  my  anxious 
time  with  Mrs.  Ponting-Mallow,  and  the  charm  of  the 
country  in  April  called  me  with  an  insistence  which  I, 
hardened  Cockney  though  I  was,  could  not  disregard. 
It  is  easy  to  be  wise  after  the  event,  but,  had  I  known 
what  was  in  store  for  me  by  the  domestic  hearth,  I 
would  have  shrunk  to  a  shadow  on  the  flagstones  of 
London  before  accepting  the  treacherous  hospitality 
of  my  parents. 

My  father  is  an  easy-going  country  gentleman,  ready 
to  let  things  slide  if  he  can  thereby  escape  an  argu- 
ment— in  political  phraseology  a  "  peace  at  any  price  " 


TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

man.  On  his  own  initiative  he  would  never  have  sent 
the  ultimatum  of  January  last,  with  its  reflections  on 
my  bachelor  state,  since  his  cause  of  complaint  against 
me  is  my  taste  for  literature.  My  father's  outlook 
on  life  is  that  of  the  dweller  on  the  soil.  The  growth 
of  social  forces  seeking  to  break  the  spell  cast  by  the 
land  over  its  occupants  fills  his  kindly  soul  with  fear 
lest  he  and  his  should  be  torn  from  their  ancient  seat. 
The  part  played  by  the  Press  in  hastening  this  divorce 
between  the  land  of  England  and  its  owners  has  im- 
bued him  with  a  hatred  of  journalism  and  all  its  works. 
That  his  only  son  should  have  joined  the  forces  of 
the  enemy  has  been  the  severest  trial  of  his  middle 
age.  Moreover,  the  profession  of  letters  is  associated 
in  my  father's  mind  with  disreputable  surroundings. 
He  labels  any  one  who  dips  a  pen  into  an  inkpot  as  an 
outsider,  and  a  slouch  hat,  unshaven  cheeks,  and  ram- 
shackle costume  as  inseparable  features  to  his  con- 
ception of  a  journalist  as  to  Haines'  idea  of  a  Bohe- 
mian. My  father's  idea  of  success  is  peculiarly  his  own. 
If  he  is  to  acknowledge  ability  it  must  proceed  along 
recognized  lines.  Thus  he  sets  his  seal  of  apprecia- 
tion on  the  position  of  a  Steward  of  the  Jockey  Club, 
and  withholds  it  from  George  Meredith's.  "Any 
boy  can  write,"  is  his  point  of  view,  "  since  it  only 
means  thinking  of  the  proper  words;  but  it  takes  a 
man  to  judge  a  horse."  And  in  the  same  way,  a 
deputy-lieutenant  looms  larger  in  his  eyes  than  the 
Member  of  Parliament  for  the  county.  Whatever 
error  in  birth  or  upbringing  went  to  the  endowing  of 
me  with  the  temperament  of  a  Bohemian,  my  father, 
at  any  rate,  is  not  responsible  for  it.  I  am,  and  al- 
ways shall  remain,  a  problem  to  him ;  although  I  doubt 
whether  I  shall  justify  the  suspicion  he  harbors  that, 


APRIL  115 

when,  in  the  fullness  of  time,  I  succeeded  to  the  Place 
and  its  acres,  I  shall  cut  down  the  trees  in  the  park  to 
make  paper  pulp  with,  and  erect  a  printing  machine 
in  the  musicians'  gallery.  Pride  of  ancestry  is  not 
weakened  by  being  planted  alongside  the  modern  spirit 
in  the  soul  of  a  man.  I  will  never  degrade  the  herit- 
age handed  down  to  me  by  the  long  line  of  Hanburys, 
dead  and  gone,  whose  portraits  keep  ceaseless  vigil, 
from  the  walls  of  my  home,  over  the  fortunes  of  their 
latest  descendant. 

I  have  noticed  that  fathers  never  dictate  to  daughters 
in  the  way  that  mothers  do  to  sons.  A  man  realizes 
that  his  womankind  can  manage  much  better  for  them- 
selves than  on  any  advice  he  is  competent  to  offer. 
But  a  woman  is  always  prepared  to  lay  down  laws  of 
conduct  for  a  sex  whose  standards  are  as  remote  from 
hers  as  the  customs  of  the  Fijians  from  those  of  the 
natives  of  Lapland.  My  mother's  amiable  theory  is 
that  once  get  me  married,  and  every  anxiety  on  her 
and  her  husband's  part  of  which  I  am  the  cause  will 
be  removed.  To  her  marriage  is  an  institution  which 
strains  one's  nature  free  of  impurities.  A  man  goes 
into  it  riotous,  extravagant,  self-indulgent:  he  comes 
out  a  churchwarden,  carrying  the  offertory  bag. 

Setting  out  with  this  goal  in  sight,  my  mother  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  my  stay  at  Easter  let  no  oppor- 
tunity pass  of  airing  her  views.  No  allusion  was  too 
slight,  no  occasion  inappropriate  for  her  to  read  me 
a  homily  on  the  virtues  acquired  by  "  double  harness," 
and  the  vices  accruing  from  single-blessedness.  The 
•number  of  promising  careers  amongst  our  acquaint- 
ances shattered  by  the  latter  state  of  affairs  filled  me 
with  surprise.  People  I  had  never  suspected  of  pos- 
sessing any  brains  apparently  would  have  been  in  the 


116  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

forefront  of  their  professions  had  they  only  married 
in  their  twenties.  Even  our  solicitor  was  quoted  as 
a  potential  President  of  the  Law  Society  but  for  his 
confirmed  bachelor  instincts,  which  had  kept  him  in 
a  small  country  town  because  the  hunting  was  good. 
I  knew  for  a  fact  that  the  man  had  run  away  with  a 
client's  wife  when  still  articled,  so  he  had  shown  good 
intentions  which  might  have  been  allowed  to  discount 
his  later  bachelor  behavior.  When  I  laid  stress  on  this 
point  in  his  favor  my  mother's  only  form  of  argu- 
ment was  to  rebuke  me  for  my  bad  taste.  So  like  a 
woman  to  shirk  the  issue  on  a  question  of  morality! 
But  if  my  Easter  troubles  had  ended  there  I 
shouldn't  have  minded.  A  violent  acquiescence  in  those 
prejudices  which  he  disguises  to  himself  as  "  patriot- 
ism "  will  always  turn  my  father's  thoughts  from  my 
concerns,  and  I  can  generally  silence  my  mother  for  a 
time  by  a  feigned  surrender.  I  had,  however,  other 
things  on  my  mind,  beginning  with  George  Burn,  who 
was  with  us,  in  compliance  with  my  sister  Dulcie's 
request  that  I  would  bring  some  man  to  balance  an 
old  school  friend  of  hers,  Miss  Audrey  Maitland  by 
name,  who  was  staying  over  the  holidays.  I  obeyed 
the  more  willingly  for  George's  own  sake.  For  the 
last  two  months  George  has  been  steering  an  erratic 
course  between  Lady  Lucy  Goring  and  Kitty  Denver, 
the  Transatlantic  heiress,  and  I  owed  it  to  him  to  give 
him  a  change  of  diet.  It  is  a  great  fault  of  George's 
that  he  can  do  nothing  by  halves.  He  must  not  only 
devour  the  oyster,  but  the  shell  as  well.  And  he  was 
aided  in  his  inclination  for  Dulcie's  very  attractive 
company  by  the  development  of  quite  a  new  side  to 
her  character,  a  tendency  to  feminine  deceit,  coupled 
with  a  masculine  directness  of  action  when  it  served 


APRIL  117 

her  purpose.  The  first  we  knew  of  a  picnic  in  the 
pine  woods  was  Dulcie's  luncheon  announcement  that 
Audrey  Maitland  and  myself  had  planned  it  the  night 
before.  Besides  the  awkward  assumption  of  intimacy 
it  raised  between  us  two,  whoever  heard  of  a  picnic 
in  April,  and  in  a  pine  wood  of  all  places,  where  the 
"  needles  "  spike  every  portion  of  one's  anatomy,  and 
form  undesirable  ingredients  of  the  salad  and  the 
pudding?  When  the  event  came  off  Dulcie  made  no 
attempt  at  diplomatic  evasion  of  the  duties  of  chaper- 
onage  devolving  on  her,  but  disappeared  with  George 
"  to  look  for  nests,"  leaving  Miss  Maitland  and  myself 
to  clear  away  the  debris  of  lunch,  and  bore  each  other 
with  abstract  topics  of  the  kind  indulged  in  by  the 
Sunday  papers — "Is  love  at  first  sight  possible,  or 
desirable  ?  "  and  "  Do  red-haired  girls  make  the  best 
wives?"  On  another  occasion,  when  Miss  Maitland 
was  lying  down  with  a  headache,  Dulcie  invited  me  to 
motor  over  to  pay  a  call  some  ten  miles  away  with 
so  touching  an  exhibition  of  sisterly  solicitude  that  I 
threw  up  an  expedition  I  had  planned  with  the  keeper, 
only  to  discover  too  late  that  I  was  expected  to  drive 
the  car,  while  she  sat  behind  with  George.  I  gave 
them  the  worst  jolting  they're  ever  likely  to  have  in 
their  lives. 

The  onlooker,  they  say,  sees  most  of  the  game,  but 
I  was  puzzled  to  know  what  the  game  was,  and  espe- 
cially the  part  George  was  playing  in  it.  Full  of  spir- 
its and  bubbling  over  with  vivacity  in  the  company  of 
the  ladies,  George  in  the  smoking-room  was  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  dumb.  After  one  cigarette  he 
would  wander  away  on  some  vague  errand  or  other, 
muttering  an  explanation  of  which  nobody  caught  the 
purport.  The  errand  always  seemed  to  end  up  near 


118  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

Dulcie.  His  sense  of  humor  deserted  him,  too,  and 
he  became  a  fierce  champion  of  the  rights  of  women, 
interspersing  his  argument  with  a  mass  of  irrelevant 
observations  about  the  unappreciativeness  of  brothers, 
and  the  curse  of  inappropriate  flippancy.  In  short, 
George's  behavior  was  a  powerful  plea  for  the  adop- 
tion by  Western  Europe  of  the  Oriental  custom  of 
keeping  women  in  strict  seclusion. 

But,  besides  the  effect  which  it  might  Have  on 
Dulcie's  impressionable  and  untried  feelings,  George's 
conduct  had  a  more  serious  side.  His  defection  left 
me  stranded.  Rather  than  become  a  target  for  my 
parents'  arguments,  I  gave  Miss  Audrey  Maitland 
the  benefit  of  my  society  for  more  hours  than  I  care 
to  confess. 

I  had  been  seriously  annoyecl  at  finding  I  was  ex- 
pected to  play  host  to  a  girl  friend  of  Dulcie's,  when 
I  had  hoped  for  a  week's  peace  from  the  sex,  and  I 
had  resolved  to  do  as  little  as  I  conveniently  could  in 
the  "  squire  of  dames  "  line,  and  leave  the  visitor  to 
find  her  chief  companionship  in  her  workbox  and  the 
piano.  Upon  reading  Dulcie's  letter,  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  dislike  Miss  Maitland,  and  it  was  just  as  well 
I  settled  that  much  beforehand,  or,  upon  being  intro- 
duced in  the  hall,  I  might  have  been  tempted  into  a 
contrary  opinion.  Audrey  Maitland  had  the  oval  face 
of  a  Botticelli,  a  rosebud  mouth  round  which  the 
dimples  lurked,  a  coquettish  turn  of  the  head,  and 
shapely  figure  held  erect,  a  frankness  of  manner  that 
suggested  the  most  agreeable  companionship,  and  a 
trick  of  raising  the  eyes  when  she  answered  a  question 
that  made  one  want  to  ask  several  more.  I  was  so 
prepossessed  in  the  girl's  favor  that  I  only  just 
stopped  myself  in  time  from  offering  to  show  her  the 


APRIL  119 

stables.  Instead,  I  looked  over  her  head  (it  barely 
reached  my  shoulder)  to  inquire  whether  the  tap  in 
the  bathroom  was  in  working  order.  That  Miss 
Maitland  giggled  showed  she  had  a  sense  of  humor — 
I  can  forgive  much  for  a  sense  of  humor — 
much,  yes,  but  not  a  lowering  of  my  own  standard  of 
self-respect.  To  employ  a  military  metaphor,  I  re- 
tired in  disorder  from  the  encounter. 

Beauty  and  brains  don't  usually  go  together,  but 
Audrey  Maitland  was  as  intelligent  as  she  was  good- 
looking.  She  had  more  than  a  nodding  acquaintance 
with  the  great  classical  authors,  and  took  a  real  in- 
terest in  the  affairs  of  the  world,  in  contrast  to  Dulcie, 
who  never  opens  a  paper  from  one  year's  end  to  the 
other.  But  Miss  Maitland  wasn't  in  the  least  bit  a 
"  bluestocking/'  nor  an  intellectual  poseur;  her  tastes 
in  art  and  literature  being  her  own,  and  not  some  one's 
else.  In  fact,  she  won  my  respect  by  telling  me 
that  she  thought  Ruskin  a  bore,  and  that  the  place 
of  honor  on  her  shelves  was  held  by  Tom  Jones. 

We  all,  even  the  youngest  of  us,  are  liable  to  make 
mistakes,  and  the  first  evening  at  dinner  I  concluded 
that,  because  in  a  pale  blue  dress  and  with  a  fillet  of 
ribbon  across  her  forehead  she  looked  a  fit  subject 
for  a  sonnet,  I  could  unload  any  nonsense  on  to  Miss 
Maitland.  Under  cover  of  the  butler's  clattering  the 
fish  knives  together  on  the  sideboard  I  said  something 
about  country  air  suiting  the  complexion. 

"  I  suppose,"  remarked  Miss  Maitland,  "  you  begin 
by  telling  every  girl  that  she  looks  nice." 

"If  I  can,"  I  replied. 

"You  don't  give  my  sex  much  credit  for  intelli- 
gence." 

"Because  if  I  draw  a  conversational  check  on  in- 


120  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

telligence  it  is  invariably  returned  to  me  marked  '  No 
account/  I  don't  put  you  in  that  category." 

"  You've  merely  varied  the  form  of  compliment  to 
suit  the  situation.  I  think  compliments  silly." 

"  So  do  I,  only  it's  the  fashion  to  pay  them." 

"  You  say  that,"  remarked  Miss  Maitland,  "  so  that 
I  may  admire  your  candor.  I  believe  you're  one  of 
those  men  who  make  love  to  every  woman  they 
meet." 

The  insinuation  stung,  and  I  laid  myself  out  dur- 
ing the  next  week  to  prove  to  the  girl  its  falsity.  I 
call  most  of  Dulcie's  friends  by  their  Christian  names, 
but  "  Audrey "  never  crossed  my  lips.  I  may  have 
thought  of  Miss  Maitland  as  "  Audrey  "  once  or  twice, 
once  certainly  when  I  was  shaving,  for  I  came  down 
with  a  gash  across  my  cheek  as  "  wide  as  a  church 
door,"  but  I  was  punctilious  in  keeping  up  the  out- 
ward forms  of  distant  acquaintanceship,  a  task  made 
the  more  difficult  through  George's  occupation  with 
Dulcie.  Even  when  it  poured  with  rain  the  whole 
of  one  day  I  never  suggested  "  cat's-cradle "  or 
picquet,  lest  she  might  have  suspected  me  of  getting 
up  a  flirtation.  It  is  true  that  we  did  stay  up  over  the 
billiard-room  fire  the  last  night,  till  my  mother  sent 
her  maid  down  to  ask  my  companion  when  she  was 
coming  up  to  bed.  As  it  was  only  12.30  it  struck  me 
as  unnecessary  surveillance,  but  I  daren't  object,  and 
then  have  my  romantic  tendencies  flung  in  my  face. 

For  two  hours  that  evening  I  sat  in  an  armchair 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hearth,  and  left  the  choice 
of  topics  to  the  lady,  severe  self-discipline  on  my  part, 
the  more  so  as  black  suited  Audrey  Maitland  to 
perfection,  and  she  had  had  the  forethought  (to  call  it 
"  coquetry"  would  be  treating  her  as  she  treated  me) 


APRIL  121 

to  put  a  red  pompon  in  her  hair.  We  wasted  an 
hour  and  a  half  of  precious  solitude  before  a  gorgeous 
wood  fire,  which  invited  the  building  of  cloud  castles — 
wasted  it  in  cold-blooded  common  sense.  I  got  more 
and  more  incoherent  in  my  replies,  till  Miss  Maitland 
gave  up  her  struggle  to  interest  me  in  rational  sub- 
jects, and  we  both  stared  into  the  flames  in  silence. 

"  There  was  once  a  little  man,"  I  suddenly  began, 
"  who  lived  in  the  heart  of  a  log  all  by  himself,  happy 
and  free  from  care,  until  his  home  was  put  on  a  big 
hearth  and  burned  to  ashes.  He  found  himself  all  of 
a  sudden  by  the  side  of  a  lovely  flame  quivering  with 
beautiful  colors,  and  glowing  with  passion.  Then 
his  heart  beat  furiously,  for  he  had  never  looked  on 
anything  so  entrancing.  '  Who  are  you  ?  '  asked  the 
little  man,  as  the  flame  gently  caressed  his  cheek.  '  I 
am  the  soul  of  the  log  in  which  you  dwelt/  replied 
the  flame.  -'Come  into  my  embrace/  Whereupon 
she  folded  him  in  her  arms,  and  he  passed  away  with 
her  up  the  chimney  in  a  puff  of  smoke." 

"Which  being  interpreted  means ? "—queried  Miss 
Maitland,  in  a  drowsy  voice. 

"That  as  I  can't  find  happiness  up  the  chimney 
like  my  friend,  I  must  look  for  it  here." 

To  which  inanity  Miss  Maitland's  reply  ought  to 
have  been  interesting  had  not  the  maid  aforesaid  ap- 
peared on  the  scene  and  saved  the  situation. 

Traveling  back  to  town  next  morning  by  the  early 
train,  George  had  the  effrontery  to  tell  me  that  Dulcie 
and  he  thought  I  had  seemed  "  rather  gone  "  on  the 
girl.  In  a  few  pointed  words  I  explained  to  George 
how  unfavorably  his  conduct  must  strike  any  unprej- 
udiced observer.  Not  only  had  he  flirted  abomina- 
bly with  the  sister  of  his  best  friend,  but  he  had  left 


122  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

that  best  friend  to  meet  temptation  single-handed. 
But  George,  like  the  crafty  criminal  he  is,  reserved  his 
defense,  and  read  the  Morning  Post. 

Easter,  from  every  point  of  view,  had  been  a  com- 
plete failure. 


MAY 


Woman  is  a  comedy,  which  the  wise  critic  hisses  off  the  stage" 
— "The  Commonplace  Book"  of  Archie  Haines. 


MAY 

The  Philosopher  in  Hyde  Park — "East  of  the  Sun, 
West  of  the  Moon" — Massey  champions  the 
Stage — A  Dialogue  at  a  Dance 

THE  London  season  has  begun  in  earnest,  and 
the  air  is  charged  with  the  electricity  gen- 
erated from  the  crowds  of  fashionable  folk  flowing 
in  carriages  and  on  foot  from  Hyde  Park  down  Pic- 
cadilly and  through  the  Squares,  filling  the  clubs  and 
restaurants  all  day  with  well-dressed  idlers,  occupying 
at  night  every  stall  and  box  at  the  theaters,  and  then 
filing  up  endless  staircases  amidst  roses  and  smilax  to 
shake  hands  with  bediamonded  hostesses,  and  dance 
till  dawn.  This  is  the  time  of  year  when  the  man 
about  town,  discarding  the  garb  of  the  shires  or  the 
links,  puts  on  a  tail-coat  and  sits  in  the  Park  morning 
and  evening ;  when  his  cab  fares  amount  to  a  small 
fortune  per  diem;  when  his  valet  takes  in  a  constant 
stream  of  parcels  full  of  the  latest  things  in  suits  and 
hosiery;  when  his  letter  box  is  crammed  with  dance 
cards  from  hostesses  he  has  never  heard  of,  but  who 
"  request  the  pleasure  of  his  company " ;  when  he 
raises  his  hat  at  intervals  of  half  a  minute  from  morn 
to  eve  in  greeting  to  his  numerous  acquaintances; 
when  he  eats  his  weight  daily  in  salmon  mayonnaise 
and  gooseberry  tart. 

George  Burn  holds  the  theory  that  the  whole 
machinery  of  season  entertainments  works  to  only 
one,  end — the  introducing  of  the  eligible  bachelor  to 

124 


126  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

the  marriageable  maid.  According  to  him,  a  Hostess 
dispenses  indiscriminate  hospitality  in  order  to  obtain 
a  background  against  which  she  can  the  most  effect- 
ively display  her  daughter.  She  scatters  four  hundred 
invitations  for  a  ball  to  secure  the  presence  of  some 
half  a  dozen  individuals  in  her  house.  Personally  I 
am  indifferent  to  the  motives  which  have  procured  my 
attendance  at  any  function  so  long  as  the  food  is  good, 
for  it  is  a  poor  heart  that  never  rejoices  in  quails  and 
plovers'  eggs.  But  I  believe  there  is  something  in 
George's  idea.  Anyhow,  he  ought  to  know,  for  he 
has  been  the  object  of  goodness  knows  how  many 
match-making  mammas,  although  he's  barely  twenty- 
eight. 

George  was  enlarging  on  the  tHeme  to  me  the  other 
morning  in  the  Park — the  place  above  all  others 
where  the  preliminary  skirmishing  takes  place,  and 
the  outposts  of  the  rival  forces  of  bachelors  and  ma- 
trons first  sight  one  another. 

"  If  I  were  a  Society  mother,"  remarked  George,  "  I 
would  guarantee  to  get  my  daughter  off  my  hands  in 
a  single  season." 

This  was  George  Burn  in  a  new  role  with  a  venge- 
ance. 

"  Well  ?  "  I  asked  encouragingly. 

George  saluted  a  passing  dowager,  and  proceeded : 

"  On  three  mornings  in  the  week  I  should  take  the 
dear  thing  in  the  simplest  toilette  up  and  down  the 
Row  from  11.15  to  12.30 — not  oftener,  mind  you, 
otherwise  she'd  get  the  reputation  of  being  a  Park 
*  hack.'  The  men  with  neither  birth  nor  '  brass ' 
behind  them  I'd  just  nod  to,  but  wouldn't  I  smile  on 
a  parti?  I'd  flatter  him  till  he  was  in  the  seventh 
heaven  of  gratified  vanity,  and  then  I'd  disappear  to 


MAY  127 

greet  an  imaginary  friend,  leaving  him  to  enHow  my 
girl  with  all  the  charms  he  had  discovered  in  her 
mother." 

Here  George's  attention  wandere3  for  a  moment  to 
Lady  Lucy  Goring — under  the  Countess's  escort. 
Lady  Henley  is  blissfully  ignorant  of  George's  exist- 
ence, so  the  latter  had  to  be  content  with  a  stolen 
glance. 

"  You  had  just  left  your  daughter  alone,"  I  ven- 
tured to  remind  him. 

"  Only  for  five  minutes,"  replied  George,  acting 
the  careful  chaperon  to  perfection.  "  The  roses  in 
the  girl's  cheeks  should  not  waste  their  sweetness  on 
the  desert  air  of  female  luncheon  parties  and  after- 
noon *  At  Homes/  where  the  only  men  present  are 
either  prehistoric,  or  married,  or  both.  Her  freshness 
should  be  preserved  for  the  functions  frequented 
by  bachelors.  As  for  chaperoning  at  balls,  I'd  see 
everything  without  being  seen." 

"  Quite  right,  your  motto  being  '  I'm  tHere,  if  I'm 
wanted,' "  and  I  patted  George's  knee.  "  The  modern 
Jason  wants  to  win  his  Golden  Fleece  without  en- 
countering the  dragon  on  guard.  Go  ahead !  " 

"  I'd  trust  my  charge's  good  sense  not  to  give  sup- 
per to  a  penniless  subaltern,  nor  to  encourage  atten- 
tions from  a  man  who  wouldn't  pass  muster  in  the 
Royal  Enclosure  at  Ascot,  and  I'd  spend  my  time  tell- 
ing those  ladies  who  had  announced  themselves  in  the 
Morning  Post  as  forthcoming  hostesses,  how  pretty 
their  daughters  were.  Above  all,  I  would  never  pose 
before  the  eyes  of  a  critical  world  as  my  girl's  rival 
for  its  admiration.  I'd  wear  black  velvet  to  set  off 
her  white  frock,  and  let  my  tiara  draw  attention  to 
her  unadorned  wealth  of  hair." 


128  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

"  What  about  the  entertaining  you  would  do  ?  "  I 
asked,  chiefly  to  prevent  George  from  catching  sight  of 
Miss  Kitty  Denver,  who,  with  only  a  maid  in  attend- 
ance, was  coming  our  way.  That  young  woman  had 
not  made  the  journey  from  Carlton  House  Terrace 
for  nothing. 

"  Oh,  the  usual  things,"  remarked  my  unsuspecting 
companion.  "A  couple  of  Saturday  dinner  dances, 
to  which  the  most  exclusive  woman  of  my  acquaint- 
ance should  bring  on  her  party  of  young  people,  half 
a  dozen  Sunday  lunches  for  a  favored  few,  a  very 
small  and  select  musical  '  At  Home/  a  table  at  the 
Eton  and  Harrow  match  to  collect  autumn  invita- 
tions at.  And  I  tell  you,"  exclaimed  George,  "  my 
success  with  my  eldest  daughter  would  so  smooth 
the  path  of  her  sisters,  that  from  St.  George's,  Han- 
over Square,  to  Holy  Trinity,  Sloane  Street,  the  bells 
of  the  fashionable  churches  should  ring  out  in  my 
praise." 

"  Hello ! "  I  said  in  astonishment  at  George's 
temerity.  "  Have  you  got  more  daughters  coming 
out?" 

"Lots,"  he  replied  wildly.  "There's  Kitty  Den- 
ver; I  must  go  and  walk  with  her." 

"  And  run  into  the  arms  of  Lucy  Goring  farther 
down,  and  make  her  so  jealous  that  Lady  Henley  will 
probably  discover  the  whole  affair?" 

"  Not  much,"  said  the  irresponsible  George,  as  he 
prepared  to  leave,  in  spite  of  my  warning.  "I  shall 
keep  my  weather-eye  open,  and  dodge  around  a  tree 
trunk  on  some  excuse  or  other  when  I'm  in  the  danger 
zone,  or  else  drag  Kitty  off  to  the  Serpentine.  I've 
run  the  pair  too  long  together  to  be  caught  out  now. 
So  long."  And  with  a  wink  worthy  of  the  rejure- 


MAY  129 

nated  Faust,  George  was  gone  to  his  gambling  with 
loaded  dice. 

But  if  George,  with  all  his  knowledge  of  the  work- 
ing of  the  female  mind,  is  eminently  capable  of  look- 
ing after  himself,  there  is  one  of  my  friends  who  isn't 
— Major  Griffiths. 

Mrs.  Bellew's  arrival  in  town  at  all,  with  the  fall 
in  agricultural  rents  having  halved  her  husband's  in- 
come, goes  far  to  substantiate  George  Burn's  view  of 
the  Season  as  a  matrimonial  agency.  Yesterday,  in 
the  Park,  I  was  just  recovering  from  the  shock  of 
learning  that  my  favorite  partner  of  last  year  had  got 
engaged — without  my  leave — to  a  staff  officer  in 
Cairo,  and  the  Major  was  pouring  into  my  ear  his 
hopes  of  pulling  off  a  "double  event"  in  the  Derby 
and  Oaks,  when  the  good  lady,  with  Faith  and  Sybil 
Bellew,  descended  on  us  in  a  whirlwind  of  chiffon  and 
lace.  Like  the  friend  I  am,  I  at  once  tried  to  head 
Mrs.  Bellew  off  on  to  small  talk  and  scandal,  but  she 
was  not  to  be  turned  from  her  purpose  by  trivialities, 
that  purpose  being  the  securing  of  the  Major  for  a 
theater  party.  Now  Griffiths  has  an  abhorrence  of 
such  evenings,  for  he  objects  to  the  substitution  of  a 
hurried  meal,  with  little  port  and  less  cigar,  for  his 
club  house  dinner  and  the  comfortable  hour  and  a 
half  following.  In  plays  his  taste  runs  to  a  party  of 
four  men  at  a  musical  comedy  with  a  pretty  chorus, 
rather  than  to  a  representation  of  simple  English  life 
during  which  he  is  flanked  by  an  ingenue  and  her 
mother.  He  likes  to  spend  the  intervals  between  the 
acts  in  the  company  of  liqueur-brandies,  not  of  ladies. 

Mrs.  Bellew  showed  no  mercy,  however,  to  the 
Major's  improvised  excuses. 

"  I  simply  insist  upon  your  coming,"  she  said,  with 


130  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

an  affectation  of  playfulness  that  ill-conceale'd  the 
determination  beneath.  "  It  will  take  you  away  from 
your  horrid  club." 

Some  women — Mrs.  Bellew  is  one  of  them — resent 
the  bachelor's  club,  for  the  same  reason  that  huntsmen 
do  a  fox's  earth — because  it  lets  the  hard-pressed 
quarry  escape.  The  Major's  club  wasn't  "horrid." 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  mine  also.  I  told  Mrs. 
Bellew  as  much. 

"We  can't  have  you  interfering,"  she  replied. 
"  You're  a  hardened  sinner." 

"  In  what  respect  ?  "  I  asked,  aggrieved. 

"  We  all  know  that  you  run  away  from  our  society 
to  play  billiards." 

I  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  but  Mrs.  Bellew  has  never 
forgiven  me  for  spoiling  her  plans  over  Sybil. 

"  But  the  Major,"  the  lady  went  on,  "  is  so  good- 
natured  that  he  won't  think  of  disappointing  us." 

Mrs.  Bellew  could  only  descend  to  flattery  of  set 
purpose.  I  began  to  perceive  how  accurately  George 
had  dissected  a  mother's  mind. 

The  Major,  meanwhile,  stood  by,  like  a  naughty 
schoolboy,  shuffling  his  feet.  With  all  our  boasted 
superiority  of  sex,  what  children  we  are  where  women 
are  concerned.  There  was  the  Major,  a  blustering 
soldier  with  a  record  of  distinguished  service  behind 
him,  as  helpless  as  a  newborn  infant  before  Mrs. 
Bellew.  He  didn't  want  to  accept  her  invitation,  she 
knew  that  he  didn't  want  to  accept  it,  and  yet  in  spite 
of  his  protests  that  he  was  dining  that  night  with  an 
old  friend,  that  he  was  under  doctor's  orders  not  to 
stay  up  after  ten  o'clock,  and  that  he  had  to  be  in 
Ireland  on  business,  Griffiths  was  forced  to  submit  to 
the  dictation  of  a  woman,  five  feet  four  inches  in 


MAY  131 

height,  whom  he  could  have  swung  over  his  shoulder 
with  ease,  had  such  a  monstrous  notion  ever  occurred 
to  him.  Her  task  accomplished,  Mrs.  Bellew  swept 
on  down  the  Row  in  insolent  triumph,  leaving  the 
Major  mopping  his  brow,  and  myself  chuckling  at  his 
discomfiture. 

All  the  same,  if  Mrs.  Bellew  succeeds  in  marrying 
the  Major  to  Faith,  it  will  be  a  public  scandal.  What 
the  poor  fellow  wants,  but  what  apparently  he  can't 
get,  is  to  be  left  alone.  He  is  about  as  much  domesti- 
cated as  a  lynx,  a  talent  for  brewing  punch  and  bluff- 
ing at  poker  being  slight  foundations  on  which  to 
build  up  married  happiness.  If  Mrs.  Bellew  must 
find  a  partner  for  her  daughter,  in  heaven's  name  let 
her  get  some  one  nearer  the  girl's  age,  and  leave  a 
whisky-and-water-worn  veteran  in  peace! 

With  men  like  George  Burn  and  the  Major  causing 
me  so  much  anxious  thought,  I  make  it  a  rule  to  go 
into  the  background  during  the  Season,  and  play  the 
part  of  spectator  of  the  "  great  game."  One  keeps 
out  of  danger  oneself,  and  sees  all  sorts  of  funny 
things.  As  a  result,  I  can  forecast  most  of  the  So- 
ciety engagements  that  take  people  by  such  surprise 
in  the  autumn,  and  I'd  guarantee  to  draw  up  the  cause 
list  of  the  Probate,  Divorce  and  Admiralty  division 
of  the  High  Court  of  Justice  with  accuracy,  merely  by 
keeping  my  eyes  "skinned"  from  the  beginning  of 
May  to  the  end  of  July.  When  a  married  woman 
night  after  night  makes  her  home  in  ballrooms,  she 
can't  have  a  particularly  happy  one  of  her  own ;  when 
a  girl's  face  lights  up  with  animation  as  a  certain  part- 
ner claims  a  dance,  I'm  not  astonished  when  I  fall  over 
her  foot  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  conservatory 
about  3  A.  M. 


132  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

My  observation  has  led  me  to  draw  up  a  short  list 
of  rules  for  dancing  men  and  debutantes  respectively : 

RULES   FOR  DANCING  MEN 

If  you  are  introduced  to  the  belle  of  the  ball,  or 
the  most  sought-after  heiress  of  the  day,  don't  grumble 
if  you  can't  get  supper  with  her  at  the  first  time  of 
asking.  She  probably  has  other  partners  besides 
yourself.  N.B. — If  you  are  in  the  Household  Cavalry 
or  heir  to  a  peerage,  this  advice  can  be  neglected. 

When  you  have  exhausted  the  topics  of  "  the  floor," 
"the  band,"  and  the  theaters  she  has  seen,  a  good 
question  to  put  is  "Do  you  believe  in  love  at  first 
sight?"  You  are  unlikely  to  meet  a  girl  who  has  no 
views  on  this  subject,  and  it  also  has  the  advantage 
of  leading  on  to  other  matters  of  interest. 

The  aphorism  "  Women  are  like  nettles ;  they  need 
grasping  firmly,"  is  a  dangerous  one  to  act  upon  in- 
discriminately— if  you  want  invitations.  "  Qu\  em- 
brasse,  s'embarrasse,"  as  Haines  says. 

Don't  despise  debutantes.  They  will  grow  into 
women — probably  pretty  ones. 

Never  specialize.    Other  women  don't  like  it. 

Never  compete.  It  ruffles  the  hair.  Also,  if  you 
supplant  all  your  rivals,  you  find  yourself  loaded  with 
unpleasant  responsibilities. 

If  you  don't  know  your  host,  shake  hands  with  all 
the  waiters.  It  will  save  you  missing  him. 

Women  prefer  a  rat-catcher  who  makes  love  to 
them  to  an  Adonis  who  doesn't.  Join  the  ranks  of 
the  rat-catchers. 

Should  a  chaperon  accost  you  with  "I  want  to 
introduce  you  to  a  charming  girl,"  demur  until  the 


MAY  133 

girl  in  question  has  been  pointed  out.     Your  ideas  of 
charm  probably  differ. 

RULES  FOR  DEBUTANTES 

Never  let  one  man  monopolize  you.  It's  awkward 
for  you  when  he  doesn't  happen  to  be  present. 

Always  tear  up  your  programme.  It  saves  the 
memory — and  your  reputation  for  truthfulness. 

Go  back  to  your  chaperon  between  the  waltzes.  It 
is  a  pity  to  make  her  climb  the  back  stairs  in  search 
of  you. 

Cultivate  dimples.    They  are  irresistible. 

Should  a  partner  tear  your  dress,  smile  sweetly  and 
say,  "  It  doesn't  matter,  it's  only  an  old  rag."  He 
will  think  what  an  unspoiled,  simple  nature  you  have, 
and  probably  propose. 

If  your  powers  of  conversation  should  fail,  use  your 
eyes.  Their  eloquence  is  unmatched. 

Don't  dance  only  with  soldiers.  Civilians  cause 
much  less  anxiety  to  their  wives. 

To  be  smart  one  needn't  necessarily  say  things  that 
make  other  people  smart. 

When  a  man  pays  you  open  compliments  you  may 
be  quite  certain  he  thinks  you  a  fool.  Cut  his  next 
dance;  he  will  deserve  it. 

Haines  is  no  exception  to  the  rule  that  Londoners 
know  very  little  about  their  own  city,  for  when  I  last 
suggested  taking  him  to  the  Soho  haunts  of  my  news- 
paper days,  he  asked  whether  he  hadn't  better  leave 
his  watch  and  chain  at  home  and  take  a  knuckle- 
duster. Haines  and  his  kind,  if  by  any  chance  they 
are  compelled  to  cross  a  line  drawn  from  Oxford 


134  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

Street  to  Trafalgar  Square,  do  so  with  an  acute  sense 
of  discomfort  at  their  surroundings,  and  a  desire  to 
return  with  all  speed  to  the  familiar  landmarks  of  the 
fountain  in  Piccadilly  Circus,  or  the  arch  on  Con- 
stitution Hill.  They  hurry  down  the  Strand  like  fugi- 
tives from  justice,  intent  only  on  transacting  the  busi- 
ness which  has  compelled  them  to  traverse  pavements 
crowded  with  men  and  women  of  unknown  aspect, 
and  ignorant  that  the  most  delectable  spots  imagina- 
ble lie  beyond  the  arbitrary  boundary  set  up  by  Fash- 
ion. The  strange  domain  spreading  around  Covent 
Garden  and  behind  Leicester  Square  is  a  No  Man's 
Land,  a  literary  and  artistic  Alsatia,  comparable  in  its 
diversity  with  the  Latin  Quarter  alone.  One  door  in 
a  narrow  street  admits  you  to  the  meeting  place  of  a 
select  coterie  of  authors  and  actors,  where  one  may 
hear  the  best  of  conversation  and  mimicry;  by  enter- 
ing another,  you  can  get  the  finest  French  cooking  for 
a  few  pence- — dandelion  salad,  kidneys  that  melt  in 
the  mouth,  an  omelette  aux  -fines  herbes  worthy  of 
Paillard's,  and  eat  the  whole  in  a  cosmopolitan  com- 
pany ranging  in  status  from  a  comedian  at  the  music 
hall  around  the  corners,  to  a  mannequin  at  Lucille's. 

Haines,  perhaps,  is  hardly  the  person  to  appreciate 
the  pleasures  of  Bohemia,  since  socially  he  is  a 
materialist,  a  believer  in  the  cutlet  for  cutlet  principle 
of  existence,  and  gives  dinners  to  be  dined,  calls  to  be 
asked  again,  making  it  his  rule  to  see  the  "  tat "  in 
prospect  before  he  offers  the  "tit."  He  has  a  frank 
contempt,  which  he  shares  with  my  father,  for  all  the 
artistic  fraternity.  So  far  as  he  is  concerned,  the 
world  of  ideas  does  not  exist.  He  recognizes  no 
success  but  the  worldly  one;  to  form  any  value  of  a 
reputation  he  must  translate  it  into  pounds,  shillings 


MAY  135 

and  pence.  Dante  to  him  is  a  grim  figure  crowned 
with  bay -leaves,  whose  meeting  with  Beatrice  forms 
the  subject  of  a  famous  picture;  Shakespeare  is  a 
dramatist  whose  plays  are  acted  at  His  Majesty's 
Theater.  Archie  Haines  is  an  invaluable  tonic  to  a 
fellow  like  myself,  for  his  attitude  toward  life  knocks 
all  the  conceit  out  of  one.  When  a  morning's  inspira- 
tion has  filled  me  with  a  hope  that  I  may  some  day 
achieve  a  measure  of  fame,  Haines'  question.  "  Been 
scribbling  lately,  old  man  ?  "  reduces  my  work  to  its 
proper  proportions. 

But  this  Philistinism  has  not  prevented  Haines  from 
breaking  his  orthodoxy  on  occasions,  and  accompany- 
ing me  to  Roche's  and  "  the  Gourmet,"  rambling  at 
all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  through  the  strange, 
ghost-ridden  purlieus  of  Covent  Garden  and  the 
Strand.  We  have  lunched  at  the  Yorick  Club,  and 
supped  at  the  Beefsteak,  and  in  the  space  of  eight 
hours  have  seen  more  of  mankind  than  could  have 
been  compassed  by  eight  months  of  our  customary 
routine  of  hunting,  shooting,  dancing,  and  love- 
making. 

It  was  a  stroke  of  luck  that  led  me  to  run  into 
Steward  the  other  night  outside  the  stage  door  of  the 
"  Alcazar "  when  Haines  happened  to  be  with  me, 
because  I  should  never  "of  malice  aforethought "  have 
arranged  a  meeting  between  persons  of  such  antago- 
nistic intellectual  standpoints.  Haines  was  taken  at  a 
disadvantage  owing  to  the  green  felt  hat  and  flannel 
suit  he  had  put  on  in  deference  to  my  objection  to  his 
original  choice  of  dress  clothes  and  an  opera  hat  for  a 
tour  of  the  town,  so  instead  of  assuming  a  "Weary 
Willie  "  expression  of  well-bred  superciliousness,  he 
returned  Steward's  greeting  with  warmth,  and  showed 


136  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

no  sign  of  astonishment  wh'en  Mason,  the  lessee  and 
manager  of  the  "Alcazar,"  loomed  up  out  of  the 
shadows  masking  the  stage  entrance  in  his  massive 
dignity  of  rings  and  shirt-studs,  and  genially  shook 
hands  all  round  without  any  formality  of  introduction. 

"We're  just  off  to  my  place  for  a  business  chat," 
Steward  remarked  to  me,  "  but  you  and  your  friend 
won't  be  in  the  way  if  you  care  to  come  round  too." 

Haines  gave  me  a  wireless  telegraphic  dig  in  the 
ribs  to  signify  his  assent,  so  we  all  linked  arms  and 
stormed  Steward's  rooms  in  style. 

The  seal  of  that  extraordinary  man's  originality 
was  stamped  over  his  abode.  A  common,  self-con- 
tained flat  had  been  transformed  into  something  un- 
like anything  Haines  had  ever  seen.  The  hall  was 
spanned  by  one  of  those  arches  of  Moorish  fretwork 
in  which  hung  a  heavy  curtain  of  Eastern  stuff  glitter- 
ing with  a  shower  of  golden  sequins.  Across  one  wall 
stretched  a  rug  of  brilliant  coloring,  the  product,  so 
Mason  assured  me,  of  the  Shah's  own  factory  in 
Teheran;  on  the  other  the  only  ornament  was  an 
exquisite  reproduction  of  a  Holy  Family  by  Murillo, 
before  which  burned  a  row  of  candles  in  an  enamel 
setting.  The  pulses  of  Steward's  visitors  quickened 
in  response  to  the  cunning  suggestion  of  mystery  he 
had  contrived  to  convey  by  his  scheme  of  decoration. 
The  first  object  that  caught  the  eye  as  the  door  of  the 
sitting-room  opened  was  a  bronze  replica  of  the  life- 
size  head  of  the  Caesar  from  the  Vatican,  placed  on  an 
ebony  pedestal  to  let  the  representation  of  immortal 
majesty  command  the  senses.  Across  the  mantelpiece 
ran  a  fine  Flaxman  plaque,  while  in  front  of  the  fire- 
place stood  a  club  fender,  the  seat  upholstered  in  dark 
red  morocco  to  match  the  prevailing  tint  of  the  room. 


MAY  137 

Bookcases  spread  around  three-quarters  of  the  wall 
space,  ending  in  a  large  bow  window  before  which 
velvet  curtains  fell.  An  old  oak  knee-desk  had  been 
drawn  aside  from  its  usual  place  of  honor  by  the 
window,  to  make  way  for  a  supper  table  laden  with 
sandwiches  and  fruit,  displayed  on  cut  glass  and  silver 
dishes  of  quite  unusual  workmanship.  A  profusion  of 
long,  low-lying  armchairs  showed  that  the  presiding 
deity  of  this  combination  of  luxury  and  comfort  was 
a  man. 

Steward  had  given  character  to  the  chamber  by 
some  unexpected  touches.  On  the  walls  were  posters 
by  Willette  and  Dudley  Hardy,  a  framed  "  Contents 
Bill"  of  the  Evening  Star  announcing  the  relief  of 
Mafeking,  and  menus  of  Savage  Club  guest  nights.  A 
shelf  held  the  gloves  with  which  Jake  Peters  won  the 
world's  heavy-weight  championship  in  Chicago,  and 
a  mummied  cat,  unearthed  in  making  the  Law 
Courts'  excavations.  On  the  cottage  grand  piano,  a 
pair  of  stuffed  bantam  cocks  crowed  dumb  defiance  at 
each  other,  and  raised  their  steel-shod  spurs  for  battle. 
Well-controlled  eccentricity,  bizarre  common  sense, 
were  the  impressions  given  by  this  remarkable  apart- 
ment, the  effect  of  which  was  heightened  by  the  con- 
trasted simplicity  of  the  bedroom  opening  out  of  it,  in 
which  the  only  furniture  were  a  camp  bed  and  a 
Service  chest  of  drawers. 

I  waved  my  hand  with  a  showman's  gesture  for 
Haines'  benefit. 

"  This  is  the  real  thing,  my  young  friend.  On  the 
right"  (here  I  indicated  Caesar)  "you  will  observe 
the  death-mask  of  our  host's  maternal  grandfather; 
on  the  left  is  a  frugal  meal  provided  on  the  principle 
that  c  better  is  a  dinner  of  herbs  where  love  is,  than 


138  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

a  stalled  ox  and  hatred  therewith/  All  the  proceeds 
of  writing  a  few  catchy  lyrics  for  the  light  opera 
stage!" 

Haines'  disconcern  at  the  difference  between  his 
idea  of  a  literary  den  and  the  reality  was  comical. 
His  gaze  wandered  round  and  round  the  room. 

"  It  certainly  seems  a  paying  job,"  he  remarked  at 
length. 

"  Never  forget,  my  dear  fellow,"  came  the  voice  of 
Mason  from  the  recesses  of  the  armchair  in  which  he 
had  sunk  with  a  cigar,  "  that  if  the  rewards  of  theat- 
rical management  and  authorship  are  sometimes  great, 
so  are  the  responsibilities.  There  is  the  popular  taste 
to  gauge,  the  welfare  of  the  profession  to  secure,  the 
artistic  standards  to  be  maintained.  The  talents  to 

win  success "  But  here  Steward,  who  had  just 

donned  a  purple-lined  smoking  jacket,  cut  the  impre- 
sario short. 

"  None  of  that,  Mason.  If  you  want  to  get  out  the 
Vox  humana  stop,  you  don't  do  it  here.  I  don't 
much  mind  looking  at  you,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I'll 
listen  to  you  elevating  the  masses.  What  about  those 
new  songs?  I've  got  the  idea  for  one  number,  just 
the  thing  for  the  chorus  of  *  flappers.'  It  begins — 

'  Oh,  the  "  dolce  far  niente  " 
When  the  maiden  isn't  twenty.' 

It  wants  a  slap-dash  accompaniment  on  these  lines," 
and,  going  to  the  piano,  Steward  thumped  out  a  suc- 
cession of  tuneful  chords,  till  the  fighting  cocks  rocked 
again.  A  sudden  burst  of  sound  from  the  hall  inter- 
rupted the  improvisation,  the  door  flew  open,  and  a 
woman's  voice  exclaimed,  "  You  are  enjoying  your- 
selves. I  thought  you  told  Kit  and  me,  Mr.  Steward, 


MAY  139 

we  should  be  the  only  guests,  and  we  find  the  place 
overflowing." 

I  turned  in  alarm.  "Well,  I'm  damned,"  I  said 
feebly,  and  fell  into  a  chair.  It  was  Cynthia — 
Cynthia  in  a  crimson  opera  cloak,  and  wearing  my 
earrings. 

Her  face  lit  up  with"  smiles. 

"Why,  if  it  isn't  dear  old  Gerald!  'Gerald,  I  am 
glad  to  see  you." 

Steward  surveyed  us  with  an  amused  expression. 
"  Right  again,  it  is  dear  old  Gerald,  and  that's  dear 
old  Haines,  and  in  that  chair,  trying  to  attract  your 
attention  with  a  fat  forefinger,  is  dear  old  Mason." 

Cynthia  turned  to  her  companion,  none  other  than 
the  "  Alcazar  "  leading  lady.  "  Is  he  often  taken  like 
this?  "  and  she  pointed  to  her  host.  Then  she  placed 
one  hand  on  my  'head  and  gently  stroked  it.  "  Don't 
be  absurd,  Mr.  Steward,  I've  known  this  boy  for 
years." 

"  That's  no  reason  why  you  should  ruffle  my  hair ! " 
I  spoke  gruffly. 

"  Diddums  didn't  like  it,"  mimicked  Steward. 
Haines  and  Mason  both  laughed. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet.  "If  you've  no  sense  of  the 
ridiculous,  Miss  Cochrane,  I  have.  Please  to  remem- 
ber that  you  are  in  the  presence  of  strangers." 

Cynthia  made  a  face  at  me — an  outrageous  action 
on  her  part.  "  Gerald,  they're  not  strangers.  I've 
had  tea  with  Mr.  Mason  heaps  of  times,  and  your 
friend  there  has  such  a  nice  face  I  couldn't  feel  strange 
with  him." 

"That's  right,"  broke  in  Haines  enthusiastically. 
"  You  come  and  have  a  sandwich  with  me,  and  we'll 
forget  that  dignified  dog,  Hanbury ! " 


140  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

"  When  it  comes  to  sandwiches,  I've  got  no  dig- 
nity," I  shouted,  and  made  for  the  table.  "  Here's  a 
toast ! "  and  I  filled  a  glass  with  champagne,  the  rest 
of  the  company  following  suit.  "Man  and  the  con- 
fusion of  Woman." 

"  I  call  that  downright  ungallant,"  growled  Steward, 
munching  a  lobster  patty. 

"  Gerald  doesn't  mean  all  the  nasty  things  he  says," 
Cynthia  made  reply  in  those  caressing  tones  of  hers. 
A  mist  swept  across  my  sight,  but  with  an  effort  I 
brushed  it  away. 

"  I'll  give  you  another  toast,"  I  said.  "  Miss  Coch- 
rane — the  confusion  of  all  of  us."  Every  glass  was 
drained.  Silence  ensued  for  a  space  while  we  de- 
voured the  good  things  Steward  had  provided. 

"  Some  one  play  something,"  Mason  began  at  last, 
producing  a  large  case  of  cigars  from  his  pocket. 
"  We've  got  a  '  premiere  danseuse '  here,  and  the  op- 
portunity is  not  to  be  missed." 

Now  Haines,  for  all  his  Philistinism,  has  an  incom- 
parable knack  of  taking  the  poorest  tune,  supplying 
the  rhythm,  and  swing  it  lacks,  and  weaving  a  har- 
mony of  sound  to  set  lame  folks  dancing,  and  dumb 
folks  singing.  From  a  merry  jingle  he  will  swing 
into  a  "  can-can,"  thence  into  a  "  tarantella,"  turn  that 
fierce,  passionate  music  into  the  dreamiest  waltz,  from 
which  he  will  glide  into  the  sobbing  refrain  of  a 
Neapolitan  love  song.  On  this  occasion  he  seated 
himself  at  the  piano,  flourished  his  hands  about  in 
caricature  of  a  famous  maestro,  ran  up  and  down 
the  scales  lightly  once  or  twice  with  a  tantalizing 
mastery  of  touch,  as  a  preliminary  to  the  most  seduc- 
tive melody  it  had  ever  been  the  lot  of  any  of  us  to 
hear.  To  the  echo  of  the  silvery  notes  all  of  us  in  our 


MAY  141 

several  ways  paid  homage;  Mason's  eyes  closed  in 
reverie,  Steward's  keen  expression  relaxed  in  a  far- 
away vision  of  the  Palace  Beautiful,  Kit  of  the  "  Al- 
cazar," whose  soul  was  in  her  feet,  beat  soft  time  to 
the  magical  music,  while  Cynthia  and  myself  sat 
before  the  wreckage  of  the  supper  lost  in  daydreams. 

"  Great  Scott,  the  fellow  can  play ! "  muttered 
Mason,  half  to  us,  half  to  himself,  and  dissolved  the 
spell  which  bound  the  room.  The  time  quickened, 
and  a  wicked  little  note  crept  into  the  soft  bars  of 
the  treble  to  wake  our  slumbering  selves  responsive 
to  its  call.  A  dry  whisper  of  enticement  ran  round 
the  circle  as  the  power  of  the  chords  gripped  it,  giv- 
ing to  each  one  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  of 
Good  and  Evil.  The  sins  of  all  the  cities  stalked  in 
our  midst  Haines  was  unlocking  doors  that  are  best 
kept  bolted  and  barred. 

"Stop  that  infernal  noise,"  shouted  Steward  in  a 
harsh  voice  I  scarcely  recognized  as  his,  "  before  you 
drive  us  mad.  Play  something  that  Kit  can  dance 
to." 

The  rebuke  was  effectual.  The  dreadful  music 
changed  to  the  glory  and  sunshine  of  a  Southern  Car- 
nival. In  our  ears  rang  the  shouts  of  the  masquerad- 
ers,  in  our  nostrils  rose  the  scent  of  the  perfumed 
South,  for  Steward  had  placed  a  lighted  pastille  on  a 
shovel,  filling  the  air  with  aromatic  odors.  I  hastily 
cleared  a  wide  space  free  of  chairs  and  et  ceteras  as  Kit 
rose  to  her  feet  and  began  to  dance,  slowly,  almost 
mechanically,  in  obedience  to  the  fascination  of  the 
music,  with  no  volition  of  her  own  to  direct  her  move- 
ments. I  believe  she  was  in  a  species  of  hypnotic 
trance,  or  she  would  never  have  done  what  she  did, 
for  although  I  have  seen  gipsies  in  Seville,  Dervishes 


142  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

__   • 

in  Algiers,  Tziganes  in  Budapest,  and  the  most 
renowned  "ballerinas"  of  Paris  and  St.  Petersburg, 
Kit  of  the  "  Alcazar  "  surpassed  them  all  at  the  bid- 
ding of  Haines.  He,  equally,  was  under  some  spell, 
for  he  left  the  rank  of  tolerable  musicians  he  occupies 
ordinarily  and  became  inspired.  In  a  mist  of  sound, 
Kit  hovered  and  swayed  to  the  call  of  the  measure, 
floating  in  the  eddying  fumes  of  the  pastille.  She 
alternately  pirouetted  and  sank,  her  feet  flickered  now 
high,  now  low,  till  she  appeared  no  longer  a  woman, 
but  a  phantom  in  the  moonbeams.  Mason  sat  bolt 
upright  staring  at  her  as  if  thunderstruck  at  the  quali- 
ties he  had  never  seen  displayed  on  the  stage  of  the 
"  Alcazar,"  and  which,  if  he  could  conjure  up  in  the 
future,  would  mean  a  fortune  to  the  pair.  At  the 
last,  when  the  piano  was  rising  to  a  crescendo  of  sav- 
age frenzy,  Steward  tore  off  his  smoking  jacket  and 
flung  himself  into  the  circle,  capering  and  leaping  with 
a  demoniac  possession,  lashed  out  of  his  ordered  self 
by  the  wild  bars  throbbing  with  passion  and  abandon. 
With  one  final  effort  he  spun  his  partner  round  at 
giddy  speed,  to  hurl  her  into  one  chair  and  himself 
into  another,  as  the  music  stopped  with  a  crash. 

Haines  rose  with  a  streaming  forehead.  "The 
devil's  in  here  to-night,"  he  said  shortly. 

Mason  cast  an  apprehensive  glance  around,  Cynthia 
gave  a  shudder  and  gripped  my  hand.  The  environ- 
ment created  by  Steward  for  his  own  delight  was,  I 
felt  convinced,  the  force  that  oppressed  us.  His  mag- 
netic personality,  translated  into  concrete  form  in  his 
flat  and  its  contents,  carried  us,  like  the  Wild  Ass's 
Skin  of  Balzac's  romance,  to  a  region  outside  ordinary 
human  existence.  No  sound  from  the  world  came 
through  the  heavy  curtains ;  nothing  in  our  surround- 


MAY  143 

ings  reminded  us  of  it.  The  somber  coloring  of  the 
walls,  the  gleam  of  old  silver  on  the  table,  the  strange 
relics,  the  fantastic  objects  on  every  hand,  conveyed 
the  certainty  that  there  convention  was  unknown,  its 
code  unrecognized.  If  the  devil  was  in  the  room,  as 
Haines  suggested,  he  would  find  himself  in  a  spot  as 
unearthly  as  his  own  abode. 

"  There  are  no  devils  except  those  we  raise  for  our- 
selves," Steward  replied,  with  grim  intensity. 

A  sob  broke  from  Kit,  who  was  in  the  full  flood  of 
reaction  from  an  excitement  which  had  overtaxed  her 
strength. 

"  Don't  frighten  the  ladies  with  extracts  from  your 
Bohemian  philosophy,"  I  exclaimed,  with  an  effort  at 
jocularity.  "  They're  more  than  half  persuaded  that 
you  practice  the  Black  Art." 

Mason  came  forward.  "  I'm  going  to  take  them 
home  in  my  car,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture  toward  Kit 
and  Cynthia,  who  was  bending  over  her.  Then  he 
turned  to  Haines.  "  I'll  give  you  a  box  for  my  show 
with  pleasure,  sir,  whenever  you  care  for  one.  You 
knock  spots  off  any  ivory  thumper  I've  ever  listened 
to,  and  you've  given  me  a  better  opinion  of  my  lead- 
ing lady  than  I've  ever  had  reason  to  hold  before." 

Haines  flushed  at  the  compliment,  but  remained 
silent.  He  was  a  little  unstrung  by  the  sensations  of 
the  night.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  precious  glad 
myself  to  be  out  in  the  street  at  the  end  of  it  all. 
Steward's  taste  for  the  fantastic  wants  tempering  with 
fresh  air.  As  for  his  mummied  cat — the  sooner  it  is 
cremated  the  better ! 

•  •  •  •  • 

I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  part  I  had  unwittingly 
played  in  the  affair  of  Clive  Massey,  undergraduate, 


144  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

and  Alice  Howard,  of  the  "  Firefly  "  Theater,  till  the 
following  letter,  bearing  the  Oxford  postmark,  recalled 
the  whole  business  to  my  memory : 

"  DEAR  HANBURY  : 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  it  odd  of  me  to  ask  you 
to  lend  me  £20.  I'll  take  it  as  a  very  friendly  act  if 
you  will,  because  I  can't  go  to  my  people,  as  they  will 
be  sure  to  ask  questions  which  I  shan't  be  able  to  an- 
swer and  respect  a  third  person's  confidences.  You 
are  a  man  of  the  world  and  will  understand. 

"  Yours  ever, 

"CLIVE   MASSEY." 

I  felt  pleased  with  my  reply : 

"DEARM.: 

"The  money  is  yours.  Come  and  gnaw  a  bone 
ches  moi  and  Sunday,  and  meet  a  pal  of  mine,  Drum- 
mond,  who  is  playing  at  the  *  Firefly '  and  is  full  of 
fun. 

"  Yours,  till  hell  freezes, 

"G.  H." 

I  knew  that  last  touch  would  fetch  Massey  as  no 
other  inducement  could,  and  sure  enough  he  accepted, 
with  many  protestations  of  gratitude,  by  return  of 
post,  forgetting,  in  his  haste,  to  stamp  the  envelope, 
and  mulcting  me  accordingly  for  the  luxury  of  obtain- 
ing a  reply. 

Drummond  turned  up  first  in  my  rooms,  magnifi- 
cent as  usual,  the  details  of  his  costume  bearing  the 
same  relation  of  civilian  dress  that  objects  seen  under 
the  microscope  do  to  the  ordinary  unmagnified  world. 


MAY  145 

His  coat  was  too  pinched  at  the  waist,  the  pattern  of 
his  trousers  was  too  stripy,  and  his  tie  was  a  huge 
"  four-in-hand  "  sticking  out  an  inch  from  his  neck, 
carrying  a  fox's  head  in  brilliants  as  a  centerpiece.  I 
took  advantage  of  Drummond's  punctuality  to  run 
over  the  salient  points  of  "  L' Affaire  Massey  "  for  his 
benefit,  hinting  that  if  he  could  contrive  to  disillusion- 
ize Massey  about  the  constancy  of  coryphees  I,  and 
many  others,  would  be  duly  grateful. 

The  culprit  arrived  twenty-five  minutes  late,  with  a 
hair-bracelet  on  his  left  wrist,  a  suspicion  of  powder 
on  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  and  a  preoccupied  spirit  that 
took  no  interest  in  Middlesex  v.  Surrey  at  the  Oval, 
when  that  topic  was  broached  to  break  an  awkward 
silence.  I  never  saw  symptoms  I  liked  less  in  a 
youth  of  twenty-one.  In  desperation  I  unmasked  my 
batteries,  and  asked  Drummond  whether  the  Cock 
and  the  Hen  was  in  for  a  long  run  at  the  "  Firefly." 
With  the  scent  red-hot,  Massey  gave  tongue,  like  a 
well-trained  hound,  proceeding  to  enlighten  us  on 
such  intimate  points  of  the  piece  as  the  new  dresses 
for  the  "  Bombay "  number,  the  choice  of  another 
understudy  for  the  soubrette  part,  the  rumor  circu- 
lating about  such  and  such  an  individual  in  the  cast. 

"  You  might  be  there  yourself,"  said  Drummond, 
"you've  got  all  the  latest  tips.  Here's  one  for  you 
hot  from  the  oven — steer  clear  of  stage  ladies.  The 
Sirens  weren't  in  it  with  them;  I  know."  And  he 
slapped  his  breast  dramatically. 

Massey  leaned  across  the  table,  and  put  his  sleeve  in 
the  custard. 

"  You've  met  the  wrong  sort,  then.  There  are 
girls  with  ideals,  with  ambitions  to  leave  this  world  a 
little  better  than  they  found  it." 


146  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

"Yes,  and  themselves  a  great  deal  tetter  off. 
There's  one  girl  in  our  show,"  began  Drummond, 
clearing  his  throat,  "who  is  a  born  actress  off  the 
stage,  whatever  she  may  be  on  it.  She  looks  a  simple 
little  thing,  yet  she  makes  others  look  a  jolly  sight 
simpler  before  she's  done  with  them.  She  meets  a  fel- 
low 'rolling  in  it*  and  she  tells  him  she  despises 
money.  Of  course  he  sets  about  spending  as  much  as 
possible  on  this  rare  flower  of  unworldly  virtue.  An- 
other Johnny  learns  that  the  beautiful  creature  with 
the  soulful  eyes  can't  afford  a  heart  amidst  the  temp- 
tations of  the  theater.  *  Men  are  so  cruel/  she  lisps. 
*  They  never  think  of  the  damage  they  do.'  He  comes 
to  the  conclusion  that  she  loves  him  for  himself  alone. 
But  she  never  lets  him  alone." 

Drummond  paused  for  a  moment  to  pull  his  cuffs 
straight.  "  Then  she  strikes  a  chivalrous  man  like 
you,  mon  ami,  and  she  works  the  '  ideals '  touch,  talks 
about  the  struggle  for  success,  tells  you  that  she  finds 
your  society  so  precious  to  her  in  helping  her  to  be 
true  to  her  best  self."--  >Here  Massey  gave  a  jump 
as  if  he  had  been  sitting  on  a  "  live  "  rail.  "  She  yarns 
you  all  this  over  five-pound  luncheons,  and  four- 
pound  suppers,  and  motor  car  trips  that  cost  you  a 
'  tenner.'  As  the  door  closes  on  your  retreating  form 
after  a  long  day  together,  she  sits  down  and  writes 
to  another  '  boy '  what  a  mug  you  are,  and  will  he  take 
her  down  the  river  for  a  change.  When  your  account 
is  overdrawn,  and  you  have  borrowed  all  the  money 
you  can  from  friends,  Miss  Alice  Howard  says  '  Good- 
by/  and  some  other  fellow  sits  in  the  stall  you  have 
warmed  so  long." 

Drummond  had  most  certainly  hit  several  nails  very 
hard  on  the  head,  for  Massey's  face  was  a  study.  It 


MAY  147 

got  more  and  more  flushed  as  the  graphic  description 
proceeded  until  it  was  nearly  purple  with  astonish- 
ment or  rage — I  couldn't  make  out  which — and  its 
possessor  finally  scattered  all  doubts  by  striking  the 
table  such  a  blow  that  the  glasses  skipped  in  all  direc- 
tions. 

"  My  God ! "  he  shouted.  "  No  wonder  the  stage 
is  criticised  as  a  profession  for  girls,  when  the  base 
gossip  of  the  '  wings '  is  repeated  to  damage  a  woman's 
character  by  men  like  you/' 

Drummond's  lips  tightened,  but  he  only  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  Massey's  torrent  of  melodramatic 
speech  rushed  on. 

"  You  don't  know  Miss  Howard.  I  have  that 
honor.  She's  the  sweetest,  dearest,  honestest  little 
woman  in  the  world.  The  things  she's  gone  through 
would  knock  the  stuffing  out  of  most  men.  A  wid- 
owed mother  is  kept  from  want  by  her  sacrifices. 
Alice  is  quite  right  when  she  says  that  the  curse  of  the 
profession  is  the  malice  and  jealousy  of  rivals.  I 
understand  her.  Men  like  you  never  will.  She's 
above  you." 

"  Her  father  is  a  *  bookie/  and  alive  and  kicking, 
if  you  want  to  know,"  Drummond  replied,  in  as  calm 
a  voice  as  he  could  command ;  "  but  I  don't  suppose 
you  do.  And  look  here,  if  you  are  going  to  champion 
the  cause  of  every  actress  who  lets  you  spend  money 
on  her,  you've  got  your  work  cut  out.  Also,  you 
needn't  be  rude  in  the  process." 

Massey  was  too  enraged  to  accept  any  evidence 
against  the  woman  who  had  cast  a  spell  over  his  young 
affections.  After  all,  I  don't  think  at  his  age  I  should 
have  listened  to  Drummond's  indictment  in  a  becom- 
ing spirit,  especially  as  in  several  particulars  its  truth 


148  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

had  caught  Massey  "  on  the  raw."  But  I  was  scarcely 
prepared  for  "  Sir  Galahad's  "  attitude  to  myself. 

"  I  won't  take  your  money,  Hanbury,"  he  said. 
"  Your  invitation  was  nothing  but  a  *  plant '  to  insult 
Miss  Howard." 

I  felt  justifiably  annoyed. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Massey;  Miss  Howard  may  be 
an  angel  from  heaven,  for  all  I  know.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  if  she  had  wings  to  fly  away 
from  the  impressionable  front  row  of  the  stalls.  But 
you've  no  right  to  quarrel  with  your  friends  because 
you  happen  to  be  in  love  with  a  chorus  girl." 

"  My  only  friends  are  Alice's,"  Massey  replied 
sententiously. 

Drummond  whistled  through  his  teeth.  "Then 
you've  a  queer  visiting  list,  beginning  with  the  King 
of  the  Kaffir  Market,  down  to  the  latest  subaltern  in 
the  '  Blues/ ' 

"Shut  up,"  I  interrupted.  "You've  given  the 
fellow  quite  a  big  enough  dose  for  one  day." 

"  Mr.  Drummond's  opinions  are  of  no  interest  to 
me,"  said  Massey,  picking  up  his  hat  and  umbrella, 
and  he  went  with  no  more  ceremony  than  a  District 
Visitor  from  a  cottage. 

I  was  the  first  to  recover  the  power  of  speech.  "  I'm 
going  into  action  straight  away.  Do  you  happen  to 
know  Miss  Howard's  address  ?  " 

Drummond  produced  a  crushed  leather  pocket- 
book,  and  consulted  its  pages.  "Number  14.  Uni- 
versity Mansions,"  he  read  out,  and  I  jotted  down  the 
particulars  on  my  cuff. 

"  'Ware  wire,  Hanbury,"  Drummond  went  on, 
"  and  look  out  when  you  come  to  the  water-jump,  it's 
devilish  deep  and  the  landing's  bad  on  the  other  side." 


MAY  149 

"  1*11  keep  a  good  grip  on  the  filly's  mouth,"  I  said. 
"  Thanks,  old  man.  I  may  want  your  help  by  and 
by." 

"It's  yours  for  the  asking,"  and  so  saying  Drum- 
mond  took  himself  off.  I  reached  for  a  pipe.  As  the 
smoke  wreaths  rose  around  my  head,  I  sketched  out 
my  plans. 

Heaven  spare  me  from  another  ball  like  the  Bra- 
tons' !  I  fought  my  way  up  the  stairs  by  dint  of  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  vigorous  elbow  work,  only  to 
have  my  toes  stamped  to  a  jelly  and  receive  several 
knockout  blows  in  the  chest  from  couples  going 
through  the  farce  of  waltzing.  The  friends  I  did  see 
I  couldn't  reach  through  the  crush.  If  I  had  reached 
them  I  wouldn't  have  heard  their  voices  in  the  uproar. 

Lady  Braton,  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  was  tossed 
hither  and  thither  by  the  flood  of  her  guests,  two- 
thirds  of  whom  she  had  never  seen  before,  and  who, 
on  their  part,  didn't  care  if  they  never  saw  her  again. 
Their  names  had  been  put  on  somebody's  list  to 
receive  invitations,  so  they  came,  chattering  in  loud 
tones  about  their  own  affairs,  impartially  ready  to 
criticise  the  hostess's  diamonds,  or  the  supper.-  The 
'debutante  daughter  of  the  house  stood  by  her  mother's 
side,  with  a  large  bouquet  in  her  hand  to  distinguish 
her  from  other  girls,  frightened  by  the  whirl  of 
strange  faces  surging  past  her,  feeling  as  though  she 
was  at  some  masquerade.  Lady  Braton  had  preferred 
to  ask  strangers  to  her  own  friends,  because  the  latter 
were  not  smart  enough,  and  she  wanted  the  dancing 
set  to  come  and  invite  Miss  Braton  back  in  turn  to 
their  own  entertainments.  The  bargain  was  perfectly 
well  understood. 


"  To-night  you  are  eating  my  cutlets,"  Lady  Braton 
said  in  effect  to  every  one  as  she  shook  hands,  a  set 
smile  of  welcome  frozen  on  her  face.  "When  you 
are  grilling  cutlets  of  your  own  in  the  next  two 
months,  think  of  my  daughter  and  myself,  and  let  us 
join  you  in  picking  the  bones  clean."  And  to  the 
credit  of  the  majority,  let  it  be  said,  they  would 
answer  the  appeal. 

As  for  myself  I  never  touch  cutlets,  so  I  merely 
felt  angry  at  being  made  to  waste  a  summer's  night  in 
overheated  rooms,  when  I  might  have  been  sleeping 
peacefully,  or  listening  to  George's  latest  romantic 
exploit.  The  crowd  annoyed  me.  I  was  jammed 
against  the  wall  by  First  and  Second  Secretaries  to 
different  Embassies,  who  regaled  themselves  by 
scandalous  little  stories  in  French  about  the  people 
present.  I  learned  that  "  The  Captain  "  called  twice  a 
day  at  the  corner  house  in  Charles  Street,  and  that 
the  tall  blonde,  who  was  being  chaperoned  by  the 
Dowager  Marchioness  of  Pendinning,  had  begun  her 
season  as  a  brunette.  When  I  escaped  by  main  force 
from  my  compromising  position,  it  was  to  fall  (liter- 
ally so)  into  the  arms  of  a  woman  I  can't  stand,  be- 
cause she  will  always  ask  me  to  eat  a  plain  dinner 
and  meet  a  plain  daughter.  One  can  carry  asceticism 
too  far,  so  I  make  a  point  of  refusing.  Dancing  was 
out  of  the  question.  I  looked  around  for  a  supper 
partner.  Molly  Hargreaves  was  no  good,  for  she 
looked  on  appetite  in  a  man  as  a  sign  of  vulgarity, 
and  only  nibbled  at  a  quail  herself;  Hester  Vaughan 
was  sure  to  be  waiting  for  that  fellow  in  the  3rd  Bat- 
talion. I  had  just  fixed  on  a  maiden  whose  avoirdu- 
pois promised  well,  when  Audrey  Maitland  brushed 


MAY  151 

past  me.  All  thoughts  of  food  vanished.  I  secured 
the  next  dance,  and  steered  her  on  to  the  balcony. 

There  was  an  irresistible  challenge  to  me  in  the 
poise  of  Miss  Maitland's  head  with  its  crown  of  Titian 
red  curls,  in  the  grace  with  which  she  leaned  over  the 
balustrade  watching  the  square  below,  in  the  soft  tones 
of  her  voice  which  woke  an  answering  echo  in  me. 
I  struggled  hard  against  the  attraction  she  radiated, 
for  I  feel  nothing  but  contempt  for  the  man  who  suc- 
cumbs to  the  fascination  of  a  woman,  and  proves  false 
to  the  independence  which  is  the  birthright  of  his  sex. 

"  You  haven't  much  to  say  to  me,  now  I  have  given 
you  a  dance,"  said  my  partner,  destroying  the  barrier 
of  silence  I  had  erected  between  us  as  safeguard. 

"I  was  thinking  of  a  topic." 

"  That's  not  a  very  courteous  reply." 

"  I'm  sick  to  death  of  courtesy,"  I  said.  "  It's  only 
mistaken  for  weakness.  Give  me  the  good  old  days 
when  we  seized  the  women  we  wanted,  threw  them 
across  our  saddlebows,  and  rode  off  in  triumph." 

"Mr.  Hanbury!" 

"  I  mean  every  word  of  it." 

"  You're  a  barbarian." 

"  We  all  are,"  I  replied  with  emphasis.  "  Scratch 
the  clancing  man  " — Miss  Maitland  drew  back  in  dis- 
gust— "and  you  find  the  savage,"  I  continued 
placidly.  "We're  all  stained  with  woad,  really,  and 
we've  only  left  our  clubs  in  the  cloakroom." 

"  Where  do  women  come  in  this  refined  theory  of 
yours?"  Miss  Maitland  said  icily.  "You  don't  put 
them  in  a  very  high  category  if  you  imagine  they 
submit  to  the  brutality  of  your  sex." 

"Bless  your  heart,  they  much  prefer  to  be  driven 


TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

i 

than  to  <drive.    Look  at  Mrs.  Fletcher  there!  " — a  very 

stately  woman  passed  across  the  window  with  the 

undersized  individual  who  was  her  husband — "  Every 

one  knows  that  she  runs  the  show,  and  is  miserable  in 

consequence." 

"  Mrs.  Fletcher  is  Mrs.  Fletcher,"  was  the  reply ; 
"  but  I  have  a  better  opinion  of  you  than  you  give  me 
credit  for." 

"Flatterer!" 

Miss  Maitland  looked  at  me  with  a  puzzled  expres- 
sion. "  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  you  turn  my  head  with 
compliments,  and  become  sentimental,  against  all  your 
theories,  too.  I,  a  weak-headed  man,  may  succumb 
to  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  night,  and  the  star-strewn 
sky,  and  the  fascination  of  your  presence.  You,  a 
strong-minded  woman,  mayn't." 

"  I  never  heard  such  nonsense !  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Maitland.  "I  think  you  must  be  mad." 

"  I'm  as  sane  as  I  ever  am,  or  ever  could  be  with 
you."  I  spoke  rapidly,  for  my  companion  showed 
signs  of  fright.  "  You  can't  shift  the  blame  on  to  me. 
I  was  doing  splendidly,  resisting  the  temptation  to  say 
how  much  I  like  you,  and  what  a  spell  you  cast  over 
my  senses,  and  then  you  spoil  it  all  deliberately  by 
telling  me  you  have  a  good  opinion  of  me.  It's  too 
bad,"  and  I  copied  Miss  Maitland's  example  and  got 
up.  She  had  turned  a  rosy  pink.  "  May  I  have 
another  dance  later  on  ?  "  I  continued  boldly. 

The  girl  steadied  her  voice  with  difficulty.  "  I'm 
very  angry  with  you,  and  I  shan't  dance  with  you 
again." 

Won't  she,  though,  at  the  next  ball  I  meet  her  at! 


"Wives  are  young  men's  mistresses,   companions  for  middle 
age,  and  old  men's  nurses." — FRANCIS  BACON,  "Essays." 


JUNE 

The  'Capture  of  Major  Griffiths — 'An  'Actress  Inter- 
viewed— Family  Cares — Miss  Audrey  Maitland 
goes  to  Royal  Ascot  and  returns 

WE  were  all  sitting  in  the  Club  on  Sunday,  re- 
cuperating, in  the  ecstasy  of  after-luncheon 
coffee  and  cigars,  from  the  fatigue  of  Church  Parade, 
when  Haines,  at  his  strategic  position  in  the  corner 
window  overlooking  Hamilton  Place,  suddenly  an- 
nounced that  the  Major  was  tottering  across  the  road 
as  though  he  had  one  foot  in  the  grave  and  the  otheP 
in  his  coffin.  Two  minutes  later  Griffiths  rolled  into 
the  room  much  as  if  it  had  been  the  deck  of  a  liner 
in  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  sank  into  the  nearest  chair,  with 
a  groan,  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  face 
with  a  bandanna  as  scarlet  as  his  complexion. 

"  Cheer  up,  Major,"  said  Haines.  "  Even  if  your 
bank  has  'bust'  you  can  always  borrow  a  'fiver* 
from  your  tailor ! " 

The  Major  reached  out  a  trembling  hand,  sounded 
a  little  bell  on  the  table  beside  him,  and  ordered  a 
port-glassful  of  '48  brandy.  Then  he  made  several 
ineffectual  attempts  to  strike  a  match,  accepted  a  light 
from  George  Burn,  let  his  cigar  go  out  twice,  and 
spilled  a  third  of  the  brandy  over  his  coat  as  he  raised 
it  to  his  lips.  Altogether  it  was  a  sad  sight 

"  The  old  man's  had  a  nasty  knock,"  whispered 
Haines.  "  I  haven't  seen  him  so  shaky  since  he  took 
that  toss  with  Fernie's  hounds  and  nearly  broke  his 
neck." 


156  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

"What's  wrong,  Major?"  I  asked.  "Were  you 
'welshed*  yesterday  at  Kempton?" 

"  Have  they  blackballed  your  candidate  at  the 
Rag?"  suggested  George. 

"  Or  has  she  refused  you  again?"  put  in  Haines, 
capping  our  random  remarks  with  one  still  more 
absurd. 

The  Major's  reply  was  incredible. 

"She  has  accepted  me." 

Haines  bent  forward.  "  Look  here,  old  fellow,  we 
were  only  chaffing.  Don't  mind  that  ass,  George!" 
— George  was  tapping  his  forehead  significantly. — 
"  Let's  talk  about  something  cheerful.  You'll  soon 
feel  better." 

"Accepted  me."  The  Major  repeated  the  words 
with  dull  despair.  He  reminded  me  of  a  man  driven 
mad  by  an  appalling  calamity,  whose  ruined  brain 
held  nothing  but  the  last  impression  registered  before 
sanity  had  fled.  All  the  same,  I  suspected  the  dread- 
ful truth.  Griffiths'  military  training  prevented  him 
from  ever  doing  the  unexpected. 

George  screwed  his  monocle  in,  and  looked  the 
Major  up  and  down. 

"  If  you  go  on  in  that  morbid  strain,"  he  said,  "  I 
shall  make  it  my  business  to  get  a  committal  order 
signed  by  two  magistrates,  and  put  you  in  a  place 
where  you  can  gibber  nonsense  to  your  heart's  con- 
tent. But  don't  do  it  here,  Griffiths,  where  there's  a 
brass  match-stand  handy  and  a  hot-tempered  chap 
like  'yours  truly.'  You  engaged!"  George  con- 
fronted the  wretched  soldier  as  though  he  were  the 
agent  of  divine  vengeance.  "Why,  you're  the  most 
confirmed  bachelor  I  know ! " 

If  this  admonition  was  meant  to  rouse  Griffiths  to 


JUNE  157 

a  sense  of  his  position,  it  failed  lamentably.  Instead, 
moistening  his  parched  lips  with  another  draught  of 
liqueur  brandy,  he  croaked  out  the  two  words  "  Mrs. 
Bellew,"  and  then  stuck  fast  in  the  effort  at  coherent 
speech. 

But  here  I  felt  that  I  was  in  a  position  to  clear  up 
the  mystery  of  the  Major. 

"Griffiths  wishes  to  announce,"  I  said,  "that  he  is 
engaged  to  Miss  Faith  Bellew.  Isn't  that  it,  Major?  " 

Thus  addressed,  Griffiths  nodded  his  head  in  mute 
confirmation. 

I  could  picture  the  whole  scene — Mrs.  Bellew  stand- 
ing with  one  hand  on  the  Major's  shoulder,  stroking 
Faith's  head  with  the  other,  and  smiling  in  triumph 
on  her  future  son-in-law.  "  So  you  are  going  to  take 
my  little  girl  from  me  ?  " — I  fancied  I  could  hear  Mrs. 
Bellew  say  it — with  a  convenient  rearrangement  of 
the  true  facts  typical  of  that  modern  matron,  for,  to 
speak  plainly,  Faith  had  been  thrust  into  the  Major's 
arms  with  a  mother's  blessing  from  the  moment  that 
he  first  made  the  girl's  acquaintance.  Mrs.  Bellew 
has  a  giant's  strength,  and  uses  it  like  a  giant. 

"Who  says  the  age  of  miracles  is  past?"  asked 
George  Burn,  of  nobody  in  particular. 

"  It  seems  funny  losing  you  like  this,  Major,"  re- 
marked Haines,  "when  you  looked  like  staying  the 
course." 

Griffiths  gave  a  meditative  frown.  The  secret  of 
his  impending  fate  once  out,  he  was  regaining  his 
composure. 

"  There's  a  sort  of  '  now-the-laborerVtask-is-done ' 
feeling  that  isn't  half  bad,"  he  said.  "  I  can  look  on 
and  see  you  youngsters  make  fools  of  yourselves  with 
some  satisfaction." 


158  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

"  A  queer  sentiment  for  a  newly  engaged  man,"  I 
remarked.  "I'd  be  sorry  for  you  if  Mrs.  Bellew 
heard  it." 

"  That's  a  wonderful  woman."  The  Major's  voice 
rang  with  real  enthusiasm.  "  She  knows  what  one's 
going  to  say  before  one  opens  one's  mouth.  I'd 
barely  got  into  the  house  last  night  when  she  took 
my  hand  with,  '  I  wonder  whether  you've  got  some- 
thing to  tell  me?'  So  I  had,  by  Gad,  but  not  what 
she  thought." 

"  What  do  you  think  she  expected  ?  "  asked  George, 
with  a  laugh.  "  A  request  for  the  loan  of  a  sovereign 
to  pay  the  hansom  with  ?  It  was  a  hansom  ?  " 

Griffiths  actually  blushed. 

"  Yes.  Mrs.  Bellew  couldn't  wait  till  the  end  of  the 
Opera." 

"Of  course,"  I  said.  "And  you  had  the  box  to 
yourselves  most  of  the  time,  while  dear,  unsophisti- 
cated Mrs.  Bellew  looked  up  her  friends  across  the 
house." 

"What  a  suspicious  chap  you  are,  Hanbury," 
growled  the  Major.  "  Can't  you  give  a  woman  credit 
for  wanting  to  see  her  friends  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  I  replied.  "  I  give  a  woman  with 
marriageable  daughters  credit  for  anything." 

But  I  didn't  flatter  myself  that  the  truth  of  my 
remark  penetrated  very  far  into  Griffiths'  intelligence, 
because  the  mood  of  self-abasement  in  which  he  had 
entered  the  Club  had  given  way  to  an  intense  satisfac- 
tion at  having  secured  a  wife.  He  began  to  enlarge 
on  the  fact,  and  it  was  thus  that,  bit  by  bit,  George, 
Haines  and  myself  were  able  to  draw  the  whole  story 
of  his  wooing  from  the  Major  without  letting  him 
realize  how  sorry  a  part  he  had  played  in  the  old,  old 


JUNE  159 

game,  in  which  Woman's  duplicity  is  matcKed  against 
Man's  weakness. 

Feeling  that  no  good  could  result  to  himself  from 
the  attention  which  Mrs.  Bellew  lavished  on  him  at 
every  meeting,  the  Major  had  begun  by  spurning  the 
invitations  which,  ever  since  the  first  week  in  May, 
had  descended  on  his  club  and  chambers  from  that 
quarter.  But  as  the  only  consequence  of  returning 
no  answer  was  that  Mrs.  Bellew  called  to  make  per- 
sonal inquiries  as  to  his  state  of  health,  Griffiths  found 
it  the  better  policy  to  temporize  in  such  phrases  as,  "  I 
will  try  to  look  in  if  I  can,"  and  "  You  may  see  me  at 
lunch,  but  don't  wait."  Even  then,  at  the  next  time 
of  meeting,  on  one  of  those  chance  occasions  of  which 
the  Season  is  so  prodigal,  Mrs.  Bellew,  instead  of 
blaming  the  delinquent  soldier  for  his  non-appearance, 
worked  on  his  remorse  bred  of  encountering  her  with 
no  ready  excuse,  and  carried  him  off  to  some  function 
at  which  Faith  was  due  to  appear. 

"Most  women  would  have  cut  me  for  giving  'em 
the  chuck  so  often,"  naively  explained  the  Major, 
"  but  Mrs.  Bellew,  like  the  real  good  sort  she  is,  said 
she  knew  I  was  a  busy  fellow,  and  they  were  only  too 
glad  to  take  me  when  they  could  get  me." 

Mrs.  Bellew  added  further  to  her  prestige  in  her 
victim's  estimation  by  giving  him,  whenever  he  did 
go  to  Green  Street, — the  site  of  her  temporary  abode 
for  the  season, — carte  blanche  to  do  as  he  liked,  take 
a  nap  after  lunch,  smoke  in  the  drawing-room,  or  ob- 
tain the  hostess's  undivided  attention  and  sympathy 
for  his  stories,  and  his  woes.  Installed  as  a  friend  of 
the  family,  his  advice  sought  on  such  intimate  details 
of  domestic  economy  as  the  choice  between  apple 
and  emerald  green  for  Sybil  Bellew's  new  frock,  and 


160  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

\vhat  books  should  be  ordered  from  the  circulating 
library,  Griffiths  turned  a  flattered  gaze  on  the  fair 
Faith,  who,  in  obedience  to  the  strategist  at  head- 
quarters, showed  a  smiling  face  to  his  rubicund  one. 
As  he  crunched  the  stuffed  quail,  and  drank  the  dry 
champagne  of  the  Bellew  hospitality,  the  source  of  all 
these  good  things  took  on  a  more  favorable  guise  to 
the  Major.  The  lady  of  the  house  appeared  no  longer 
as  an  ogress  in  wait  for  his  bachelorhood,  but  an 
enchantress  waving  soft  spells  of  satiety  and  ease. 
Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  a  prime  cigar  from  Bel- 
lew's  special  box  between  his  teeth,  Faith  seen  in 
profile  before  the  window,  Griffiths'  thoughts  turned 
involuntarily  in  the  direction  which  Mrs.  Bellew 
desired.  That  good  mother,  in  partnership  with  her 
cook,  fitted  her  guest  with  rose-colored  spectacles 
through  which  marriage  with  the  sylph  in  the  window 
seat  appeared  highly  desirable. 

Accident  at  last  accomplished  what  design  had 
planned.  Taken  to  the  Opera  by  his  would-be 
mother-in-law,  the  Major  had  been  induced  by  circum- 
stances, in  which  chance  played  no  part,  to  accompany 
Faith  back  to  Green  Street  in  a  hansom.  Musing,  as 
he  explained,  on  a  new  golf  grip  rather  than  on  his 
companion,  Griffiths  had  clutched  an  imaginary 
brassie,  only  to  find  it  was  Faith's  hand  he  had  im- 
prisoned within  his.  The  Major  felt  compelled  by 
a  sense  of  honor  to  justify  his  involuntary  action  by 
a  pretty  speech,  from  which  he  progressed  with  fatal 
fluency  into  a  tender  one.  A  sudden  jolt  of  the  cab 
threw  Faith  against  his  manly  chest,  and  there  some- 
how she  remained. 

"Upon  my  word,  I  couldn't  tell  you  how  it  hap- 
pened," the  hero  of  the  episode  assured  us,  "  but  when 


'JUNE  161 

we  readied  Green  Street  Faith  Had  promised  to  be- 
come my  wife." 

"  And  you  richly  deserved  it,"  said  Archie  Haines, 
with  the  confidence  of  the  man  who  has  never  been 
tempted. 

"  There,  but  for  the  grace  of  God,  sits  George 
Burn,"  remarked  that  individual,  forgetting  that,  were 
justice  meted  out  to  him,  he  would  be  saddled  with 
far  more  than  a  single  wife. 

It  was  an  act  of  expiation  on  my  part,  for  the  mirth 
I  indulged  in,  to  accept  the  post  of  best  man  which 
the  Major  thrust  upon  me.  I  bet  I  make  a  hash  of  it. 

I  should  probably  have  done  nothing  in  the  matter 
of  Massey  and  his  star  of  the  stage,  in  spite  of  my 
emphatic  statement  to  Drummond  on  the  occasion  of 
Massey's  tantrums  at  my  luncheon,  had  it  not  been 
for  a  fine  day  last  week  finding  me  unemployed  about 
three  o'clock,  with  no  calls  to  work  off  my  energy  on. 
Archie  Haines,  who  has  freely  prophesied  a  catas- 
trophe from  Massey's  impetuosity  throwing  discretion 
to  the  winds,  and  his  banking  account  into  overdrafts, 
warned  me  against  pulling  out  another  fellow's  chest- 
nuts from  the  fire. 

"You'll  get  no  thanks  from  either  side,"  he  had 
said,  "and  you'll  make  the  girl  think  that  she's  got 
hold  of  a  good  thing  in  *  mugs'  if  his  friends  start 
routing  her  up." 

"  But  I'm  only  going  to  prospect,"  I  protested. ' 

"  I  know  your  sort  of  prospecting,"  Haines  replied. 
"  The  next  thing  we'll  hear  of  will  be  that  you  are 
footing  a  dressmaking  bill,  or  making  the  fortunes  of 
a  florist." 

But  when  my  sense  of  adventure  is  once  roused, 


162  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

Haines  could  pour  the  wisdom  of  Solomon  into  my 
ears  in  vain.  I  pay  the  conventions  an  outward  trib- 
ute of  respect  as  befits  a  man  of  the  world,  but  in 
reality  I  give  them  scant  courtesy.  In  my  veins  flows 
the  blood  of  the  South.  I  draw  nothing  from  the 
cautious  and  unromantic  North,  save  my  income. 

On  the  afternoon  in  question,  the  idea  of  calling 
upon  Miss  Alice  Howard  of  the  "  Firefly  "  came  upon 
me  like  an  inspiration.  I  was  sick  to  death  of  fashion- 
able gayeties,  after  a  month's  undiluted  dose  of  them. 
I  had  danced  my  pumps  into  holes,  I  knew  the  menus 
of  both  the  Ritz  and  the  Savoy  by  heart,  and  there 
wasn't  a  resident  on  the  roads  to  Ranelagh  and  Hurl- 
ingham  who  couldn't  at  sight  have  picked  me  out  of 
a  crowd.  I  had  talked  my  tongue  loose  with  tittle- 
tattle  about  the  infinitely  small,  and  the  furnishing  of 
inane  replies  to  still  more  inane  questions.  The  only 
sensible  conversation  I  had  taken  part  in  in  four  long 
weeks  had  been  with  the  crossing-sweeper  opposite  St. 
James'  Palace,  who  had  told  me  how  he  would  solve 
the  unemployed  problem  in  five  minutes  if  he  was 
given  his  way.  I  forget  his  method,  but  it  struck  me 
at  the  time  as  salutary.  Anyhow,  I  was  ripe  for  mis- 
chief. 

The  address  I  had  obtained  from  Drummond  took 
some  finding,  and  I  wandered  about  for  a  long  time 
in  the  hot  June  air,  while  London  basked,  and  the 
policemen  on  duty  seemed  too  sleepy  to  give  me  any 
information  on  the  subject  of  my  destination.  I  ran 
the  place  to  earth  at  last  near  the  British  Museum,  the 
garden  of  which  looked  so  tempting  that  I  was  within 
an  ace  of  joining  the  pigeons  for  a  siesta. 

University  Mansions  was  a  tall,  newly  erected 
block  of  flats,  standing  back  from  the  main  arteries 


JUNE  163 

of  traffic.  As  I  stood  in  the  well  of  the  center  court, 
where  the  glare  outside  was  tempered  to  a  pleasing 
coolness  by  the  stone-flagged  floor  and  staircase,  I 
looked  up  to  the  dim  heights  above  with  a  sense  of 
mystery.  The  faint  noise  of  the  city  created  peace 
and  remoteness  instead  of  dispelling  it.  For  all  the 
signs  of  life  I  heard,  I  might  have  been  the  only  per- 
son in  the  building,  and,  although  the  entrance  opened 
direct  on  to  the  street,  there  was  no  porter  on  duty, 
perhaps  because  it  was  a  cul-de-sac.  I  could  have 
burgled  the  place  or  abducted  any  of  its  inhabitants 
with  impunity.  In  this  spirit,  I  slowly  mounted  the 
stairs,  listening  on  each  landing  with  an  eavesdropper's 
intentness  to  catch  a  sound  I  could  take  for  company 
on  my  upward  way.  A  thrill  of  utter  loneliness 
caught  at  my  heart,  and  nearly  drove  me  to  flight  be- 
fore I  reached  the  top  floor  and  Number  14.  I  pressed 
my  finger  on  the  electric  bell.  It  tinkled  faintly 
within,  but  no  one  came.  I  tried  again,  with  a  like 
result.  More  in  despair  than  from  any  hope  of  gain- 
ing an  entrance,  I  turned  the  handle  of  the  door.  I 
had  never  met  a  flat  door  before  that  opened  without 
a  latchkey,  but,  to  my  astonishment,  that  one  did. 
On  the  instant  I  was  inside,  with  the  door  shut  behind 
me.  I  felt  like  giving  Raffles  points  for  stealth  and 
secrecy. 

For  sheer  untidiness,  commend  me  to  the  room  I 
found  myself  in.  It  was  littered  with  every  conceiv- 
able object,  from  the  contents  of  a  wardrobe  to  the 
remains  of  a  luncheon.  Dresses  lay  over  the  chairs 
and  on  the  floor,  a  feather  boa  dangled  from  the 
electric  standard,  soiled  white  gloves  heaped  up  the 
piano,  the  table  was  strewn  with  dessert  and  decanters, 
a  packing-case  poured  its  contents  of  straw  and  shav- 


164  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

ings  on  to  the  hearthrug,  and  a  fallen  palm  spread  its 
length  across  the  sofa.  The  afternoon  sun,  filtering 
through  Venetian  blinds,  shed  an  unnatural  light  on 
the  scene,  the  greenish  pallor  it  cast  over  the  wreckage 
of  dissipation  resembling  the  symptoms  that  presage 
in  the  human  body  the  approach  of  death.  The  first 
thing  I  picked  out  was  Massey's  photograph  on  the 
mantelpiece,  a  sprig  of  white  heather  tacked  to  the 
frame,  and  "  To  Alice,  with  love  from  Boy  "  sprawl- 
ing across  the  portrait's  lower  limbs,  with  a  compro- 
mising boldness  bred  of  a  gust  of  affection  and  a  new 
"J"  nib.  I  wandered  off,  examining  the  varied  as- 
sortment of  souvenirs  and  knickknacks  that  are  of 
tribute  to  a  popular  actress  from  the  butterflies  and 
moths  that  have  been  singed  in  the  flame,  till  I  came 
to  a  standstill  before  a  writing  desk  piled  wrist-deep 
with  what  I  mentally  summarized  as  "  next  week's 
bill  of  fare."  Sure  enough  on  the  top  of  the  heap  of 
invitations  to  picnics,  suppers,  river  parties,  and  motor 
drives,  my  eye  was  caught  by  the  familiar  crest  of  the 
seminary  of  sound  learning  in  Oxford  at  which  Mas- 
sey  was  supposed  to  be  acquiring  a  liberal  education. 
I  say  "supposed,"  because  his  education,  so  far,  had 
been  much  more  in  the  hands  of  the  young  lady  in 
whose  rooms  I  stood,  than  in  those  of  the  Fellows  and 
Tutors  of  his  College.  Elated  by  my  discovery,  I  sat 
down  at  the  desk — and  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  re- 
sounding crash,  for  the  chair,  in  keeping  with  its  mis- 
tress's reputation  for  doing  the  unexpected,  incon- 
tinently gave  way  beneath  my  weight.  At  the  same 
moment  as  I  struggled  to  my  feet,  by  the  aid  of  the 
tablecloth,  I  saw  Alice  Howard  standing  in  the  door- 
way, whereupon  I  sank  back  again  into  obscurity,  in 
company  with  most  of  the  dessert  dishes,  a  half  bottle 


'JUNE  165 

of  port,  a  decanter  of  sherry,  an  empty  magnum,  and 
a  cascade  of  knives  and  forks.  The  ruin  was  com- 
plete. Samson  and  the  pillars  of  the  temple  were 
nothing  to  it. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  impudent  things '!"  came  the 

lady's  voice,  choked  with  indignation,  and  cut  short 
in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  by  her  emotion. 

"  Don't  scream,  for  heaven's  sake !  "  I  said  in  sepul- 
chral tones  from  underneath  the  tablecloth.  "  I  can 
explain  everything,"  and  I  struggled  to  my  feet,  this 
time  without  further  damage,  there  being  nothing 
else  to  break. 

Alice  Howard  still  maintained  the  same  pose,  but 
her  face  had  gone  crimson.  If  she  had  had  anything 
in  her  hand  she  would  have  struck  me,  but,  for- 
tunately, she  was  in  no  more  warlike  costume  than 
a  tea-gown,  being  fresh  roused  from  a  beauty  sleep. 
As  she  made  no  sign  to  speak,  I  began  again. 

"I  could  get  no  answer  to  the  bell,  so  I  was  pre- 
paring to  wait  for  you,  when  your  inhospitable  chair 
broke,"  and  I  held  up  a  long  splinter  in  confirmation. 

"  What  business  have  you  coming  here  at  all  ?  " 
broke  out  the  lady,  with  histrionic  abruptness.  "If 
my  maid  were  here  we'd  turn  you  out." 

"I'm  from  the  staff  of  the  Jujube"  I  exclaimed, 
with  an  inspiration  of  genius,  "and  I  want  the  story 
of  your  career,  about  a  column  long,  anecdotes  of  your 
professional  life,  the  proposals  you  have  received  from 
the  peerage,  any  details  of  interest  to  our  readers. 
[You  give  me  the  facts,  I'll  put  the  '  snap '  in." 

Alice  Howard  looked  at  me  with  an  expression  in 
which  rage  and  surprise  fought  for  the  mastery.  I 
quailed  inwardly,  but  the  one  and  only  principle  in 
"  bluffing  "  is  to  put  the  other  person  on  the  defensive 


166  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

at  the  outset.  I  should  have  been  a  lost  man  if  I  had 
let  Miss  Howard  question  my  credentials,  or  my  be- 
havior, so,  before  she  could  get  a  word  in,  I  continued : 

"I'm  extremely  sorry  if  I've  disturbed  you,  but  I 
thought  you  were  expecting  me  after  my  note,  so  I 
walked  in.  Really  you  might  have  replied,  after  I'd 
given  up  a  free  afternoon  to  get  the  interview." 

My  antagonist  threw  an  angry  glance  in  my  direc- 
tion, but  she  made  a  distinct  concession  by  clearing 
a  chair  of  millinery  and  sitting  down.  She  wasn't 
beaten  yet,  however. 

"  I  shouldn't  think  of  giving  you  any  information, 
sir,  after  the  impudent  way  you've  forced  yourself  in 
here.  If  you  wish  to  see  me,  it  must  be  at  the 
theater." 

"Oh,  come  now,"  I  said,  with  some  warmth,  for 
the  port  had  spoiled  a  serviceable  pair  of  trousers,  "  I'm 
not  a  penny-a-liner  after  a  '  stick '  of  news  to  buy  my- 
self a  drink.  I  told  you  I  was  coming,  and  here  I 
am.  I  promise  you  a  good  show  on  the  magazine 
page  of  the  Saturday  Jujube,  with  an  inset  quarter- 
column  block  of  yourself,  and  a  double-line  heading 
in  great  primer  ai»d  pica : 

"CONFESSIONS  OF  A  COMEDIENNE 
"  Miss  ALICE  HOWARD  TELLS  HOW  SHE  WINS  ALL  HEARTS 

"  You'll  get  an  increased  salary  on  the  strength  of 
it,  and  a  year's  credit  from  your  dressmaker  to  boom 
the  firm.  I  came  for  a  story,  and  I'm  going  away 
with  one.  If  you  don't  give  me  the  genuine  thing,  I 
shall  write  one  out  on  my  own — love  letters  and  all — • 
and  I'll  bring  the  Court  of  Chancery  down  upon  you, 
tipstaves,  process  servers,  and  the  whole  gang  of 


JUNE  167 

thieves,  by  saying  that  one  of  its  wards  wants  to  elope 
with  you!" 

Exhausted  by  my  own  eloquence,  I  pointed  to  Mas- 
sey's  photograph. 

That  was  pretty  rough  on  Alice  Howard,  especially 
after  the  way  I  had  treated  her  crockery,  but  I  wasn't 
going  to  be  turned  from  my  purpose  by  any  one  or 
anything.  The  threat  acted  like  magic,  since  the 
enemy  capitulated,  horse,  foot  and  artillery,  and  I  got 
the  whole  story  of  Massey's  infatuation  from  her, 
filling  her  so  with  the  fear  of  writs  of  "Quo  War- 
ranto  "  and  the  jargon  of  Habeas  Corpus,  mandamus, 
and  the  rest  of  it,  that  I  felt  positive  she  would  cut 
short  her  trifling  with  the  infatuated  idiot  of  an  under- 
graduate. In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  was  bored  with 
his  affection,  and  glad  to  be  rid  of  him. 

But  I  never  let  her  have  a  glimpse  of  my  purpose, 
getting  the  information  and  conveying  the  warning 
I  wished  in  the  course  of  my  interview.  I  made  what 
amends  I  could  for  my  conduct  by  putting  all  the 
favorite  touches  into  the  article — the  struggling  child- 
hood, the  sensational  debut,  the  past  sacrifices,  the 
future  ambitions.  I  gave  copious  extracts,  some  real, 
more  mythical,  from  the  "  charming  little  lady's  "  cor- 
respondence— the  Grand  Duke  and  his  thirty-six 
quarterings  laid  at  her  feet,  who  had  to  do  his  court- 
ship by  deputy — an  A.D.C. — owing  to  his  ignorance 
of  English;  the  humble  admirer  in  the  gallery,  who 
saved  up  his  pence  for  violets,  which  he  sent  with  a 
note  signed  "One  of  the  gods,  to  a  goddess";  the 
Johnny  in  the  stalls  who  came  in  each  night,  halfway 
through  the  second  act,  to  applaud  a  particular  song, 
and  who  expressed  his  devotion  in  the  language  of 
the  Family  Herald — "  My  heart  cries  out  always  '  I 


168  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

love  thee,' "  and  so  on  for  four  pages  of  clotted  non- 
sense. It  was  a  handsome  reparation,  and  I  left  Miss 
Howard  beaming.  She  even  went  so  far  as  to  sug- 
gest that  we  might  meet  again.  But  we  shan't. 

I  drove  straight  round  to  the  Jujube,  and,  having 
the  entree  as  a  regular  contributor,  got  to  the  editor 
at  once. 

"  I've  a  good  story  for  you,  sir,"  I  said,  when  we 
were  alone.  "An  interview  with  the  coming  star  of 
the  *  Firefly  ' — Miss  Howard — just  the  thing  to  tickle 
up  the  week-end  subscribers.  It's  full  of  spice." 

"  Miss  Howard ! "  remarked  the  chief,  ruminating. 
"  I  don't  recall  the  lady.  But  I  like  your  stuff,  Han- 
bury,  and  you  don't  give  us  '  stumers.'  If  Williams 
has  room  for  it,  it  can  go  in.  Tell  him  so  from  me." 

Williams  said  he  hadn't  room.  But  it  went  in  all 
the  same,  in  place  of  the  Women's  Dress  Column. 
Women  think  too  much  of  clothes,  and  a  respectable 
paper  like  the  Jujube  oughtn't  to  encourage  a  beset- 
ting weakness  of  the  sex.  How  many  married  men 
have  been  ruined,  etc.,  etc.  That  was  the  line  of 
reasoning  that  I  took ;  that,  and  an  invitation  to  meet 
Steward  at  dinner,  for  Williams  is  very  ambitious  in 
the  lyric-writing  line,  and  regards  Steward  as  his 
master. 

When  I  met  Williams  at  the  function  in  question, 
he  told  me  that  the  inclusion  of  my  interview  had  led 
to  letters  of  complaint  at  the  consequent  omission  from 
the  Jujube  of  an  article,  "  How  to  make  a  Directoire 
Gown  for  half  a  guinea,"  promised  in  an  earlier  num- 
ber of  the  paper. 

Ridiculous!  As  though  any  one  can't  make  a 
Directoire  dress  out  of  two  towels  and  a  safety  pin. 
Besides,  the  letter  writers  ought  to  have  been  thankful 


JUNE  169 

that  I  had  saved  them  from  social  ostracism.    But 
some  people  are  never  grateful. 

Really,  I  think  my  family  is  "the  limit."  As 
though  the  worries  of  the  Season  weren't  sufficient  to 
drive  one  nearly  wild,  without  having  domestic 
troubles  added  to  them. 

First  there's  Dulcie,  a  dear  sweet  girl,  and  a  sister 
in  a  thousand.  What  must  she  go  and  do  but  fancy 
herself  in  love  with  George  Burn,  one  of  the  best,  no 
doubt,  but  a  philanderer  if  ever  there  was  one,  a  man 
who  can't  help  trying  to  malce  himself  attractive 
where  women  are  concerned,  and  who  has  so  squan- 
dered his  affections  in  a  score  of  affairs  that  he  is 
incapable  of  real  devotion  to  a  single  object.  I  don't 
blame  George.  He  has  the  butterfly  temperament, 
and  thoroughly  enjoys  being  spoiled  by  women,  who 
have  nothing  else  to  spend  their  time  in  but  flirting 
with  the  first  young  man  who  knows  how  to  behave 
himself  with  discretion,  and  whose  personal  appear- 
ance doesn't  give  them  away  when  they  meet  husbands 
and  brothers  in  Bond  Street.  When  woman  is  fair, 
man  is  weak,  and  he  who  won't  take  the  "gifts  the 
gods  provide"  deserves  to  be  exiled  to  the  Bight  of 
Benin,  or  some  equally  sultry  spot  where  feminine 
society  is  conspicuous  by  its  absence. 

I  must  confess  to  having  misjudged  Dulcie's  social 
possibilities.  My  mother's  doubts  about  the  wisdom 
of  bringing  Dulcie  up  for  the  Season  are  justified. 
My  sister  is  far  too  ingenuous;  too  eager  to  bestow 
her  confidence,  too  unskilled  in  the  world  and  its 
wicked  ways  to  give  herself  a  fair  chance.  Only  a 
person  with  an  independent  income  can  afford  to  be 
perfectly  natural  in  London;  and  as  Dulcie,  by  no 


170  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

stretch  of  the  imagination,  can  be  called  an  heiress, 
trouble  lies  before  her.  She  takes  compliments  seri- 
ously, won't  follow  the  fashion  of  having  her  hats 
trimmed  with  the  bodies  of  birds,  and  ends  by  making 
bosom  friends — because  she  feels  sorry  for  her — with 
that  Renshaw  girl,  whom  every  one  steers  clear  of  like 
the  plague  for  her  faux  pas  in  Cairo.  But,  as  I 
told  Dulcie,  one  feels  sorry  for  lots  of  people  without 
making  friends  with  them — the  Prime  Minister,  for 
instance,  and  the  fellows  who  work  lifts  on  the  Tube. 

Dulcie's  first  meeting  with  George  in  town  wasn't  a 
success.  I  happened  to  be  at  the  Steins'  that  night, 
and  saw  it  all.  George  just  looked  in  on  his  way  to 
some  more  attractive  show,  for  the  Steins'  set  isn't  his, 
or  mine,  for  that  matter — but  as  my  mother  had  sent 
him  a  card,  he  had  to  put  in  an  appearance  and  dance 
with  Dulcie.  The  night  was  very  hot,  and  George 
had  a  good  deal  on  his  mind,  what  with  a  "  book  " 
for  Ascot,  a  stack  of  unpaid  bills,  and  several  mothers 
getting  anxious  as  to  his  "  intentions."  Dulcie,  re- 
splendent in  a  new  white  frock — she  always  wears 
white — was  expecting  him  to  continue  their  Easter 
romance  in  the  same  strain  in  which  they  had  left  it. 
I  don't  know  what  George  talked  about  on  the  balcony 
where  the  two  sat  right  through  the  waltz,  but  he 
probably  let  his  annoyance  at  having  to  come  to  the 
Steins'  at  all  get  the  better  of  his  manners,  and  was 
either  sulkily  silent,  or  else  perfunctorily  polite.  Any- 
how, when  the  pair  came  back  Dulcie's  blue  eyes 
were  as  big  as  saucers,  her  mouth  quivered  at  the 
corners,  and  she  pleaded  a  headache  as  excuse  for  an 
abrupt  departure  home. 

George  and  I  evaded  Mr.  Stein's  invitation  to  Sun- 
day lunch  which  he  makes  a  rule  of  pressing  upon  any 


JUNE  171 

eligible  young  men  who  are  brought  to  his  wife's 
dances  whether  he  knows  them  or  not,  and  went  on 
to  Brancaster  House.  George  seemed  so  blissfully 
unaware  that  his  conduct  had  been  taken  exception  to, 
or  that  any  woman's  charms  were  to  be  weighed  for 
a  moment  against  those  of  supper,  that  I  held  my 
peace  like  a  tactful  brother. 

Next  day  I  had  to  answer  a  good  many  questions 
from  Dulcie.  Was  Mr.  Burn  very  popular?  What 
did  he  do  with  his  time  ?  (This  was  a  poser.)  Who 
had  he  danced  with  afterward?  Did  I  see  much  of 
him?  I  did  my  best  for  George,  since,  on  the  altar 
of  my  sex,  I'd  sacrifice  truth,  or  anything  else.  "  Men 
liked  him,  women  didn't;  he  worked  hard  in  the  city 
till  six,  when  he  had  a  meat  tea  and  went  off  to  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  or  the  Polytechnic;  he  had  danced  with 
nobody  under  forty,  save  one  debutante  with  a  hare- 
lip. I  saw  as  much  of  him  as  was  good  for  either  of 
us."  I  gave  George  such  an  exemplary  character  that 
he  was  forthwith  asked  to  tea  by  my  literal  little  sister. 
Constancy,  I  repeat,  is  not  a  strong  point  with 
George  Burn  at  any  time,  partly,  perhaps,  because 
he  never  gives  it  a  chance.  He  has  "  heard  the  chimes 
at  midnight"  with  so  many  girls,  he  has  squeezed  so 
many  soft  hands  in  the  stalls  of  so  many  theaters,  and 
whispered  sweet  nothings  in  so  many  "  shell-likes," 
that  he  really  can't  remember  the  distinctive  features 
of  each.  Of  course  if  I  were  to  lay  the  case  for  George 
before  a  woman,  she  would  say,  "  Surely,  Mr.  Burn 
can't  deny  that  he  had  a  flirtation  with  Miss  Hanbury 
only  six  weeks  ago?"  and  dismiss  my  petition  on  his 
behalf  with  costs.  But  in  six  weeks  of  the  Season  one 
can  get  engaged  and  break  it  off,  find  the  "only 
woman  in  the  world  "  and  relegate  her  to  the  position 


172  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

of  "  last  but  one,"  change  from  blonde  to  brunette, 
and  back  again,  with  a  dash  of  auburn  thrown  in. 
The  world  was  made  in  six  days,  and  the  Season  can 
be  made  or  marred  in  six  weeks. 

George  didn't  come  to  tea,  and,  worse  still,  when 
Dulcie  met  him  at  Hurlingham  on  Saturday,  he  was 
so  occupied  with  Miss  Kitty  Denver  that  he  took  off 
his  hat  as  though  by  an  afterthought.  Dulcie  sud- 
denly made  the  discovery  that  the  Season  without 
George's  company  would  be  insupportable,  and  it  has 
been  the  greatest  difficulty  to  persuade  her  that  if 
invitations  have  been  accepted  they  must  be  complied 
with.  My  mother  has  approached  me  with  "I  can't 
see  what  Dulcie  finds  in  that  Mr.  Burn.  He  seems  a 
very  ordinary  young  man."  But  then  I  never  should 
have  expected  my  mother  to  be  attracted  by  George. 

I've  done  my  best  to  deal  with  the  situation.  Re- 
inforcements in  the  shape  of  Haines  have  been  brought 
up,  but  he  had  the  misfortune  on  the  night  he  dined 
with  us  to  miss  his  train  from  Woking,  where  he  had 
been  playing  golf,  and  arrive  when  the  fish  was  over. 
His  feelings  never  recovered  from  the  shock  of  cold 
soup,  and  the  bone  of  the  noble  salmon  which  he 
inadvertently  swallowed  in  his  haste  to  "  join  the 
field." 

If  Dulcie  had  any  sense  she'd  let  George  see  she 
didn't  care  a  hang  one  way  or  the  other.  For  a  girl 
to  sit  moping  in  a  corner  when  a  particular  man  doesn't 
dance  with  her,  or  to  follow  him  up  and  down  the  Row 
with  her  eyes,  is  to  give  the  show  away  to  him,  and 
to  everybody  else.  She  ought  to  make  desperate  love 
to  the  most  unprepossessing  person  she  can  find,  so 
that  George  will  jealously  try  to  save  her  from  herself. 
Dulcie  will  soon  gain  experience  in  London.  One 


JUNE  173 

can't  expect  the  country  to  implant  a  knowledge  of 
anything  except  vegetable-marrows  and  when  to  plant 
bulbs. 

Dulcie's  affairs  aren't  trie  only  domestic  problems 
troubling  me.  My  mother  insisted  that  my  father 
should  grace  his  only  daughter's  debut  with  his  pres- 
ence— and  his  check-book.  So,  much  against  his 
will,  he  is  up  in  town  doing  the  Season,  a  thing  he 
hasn't  done  for  thirty  years.  Not  that  it  involves  him 
in  much  social  hardship,  except  that  he  can't  walk 
about  with  a  spud,  or  smoke  black  twist  in  the  "  Way- 
farers' Club."  His  arrival,  by  the  way,  in  the  latter 
place  for  the  first  time  in  half  a  dozen  years  created 
quite  a  sensation,  for  the  porters  imagined  he  was  an 
unauthorized  stranger  trying  to  force  his  way  into 
that  exclusive  institution.  The  situation  was  compli- 
cated by  my  father  thinking  it  beneath  his  dignity  to 
give  his  name  to  "  the  menials  "  on  the  ground  that  it 
was  their  business  to  know  the  members.  If  old  Lord 
Dingwall  hadn't  happened  to  come  out  and  salute  the 
governor  warmly,  things  might  have  become  still  more 
awkward. 

Being  on  the  spot,  my  father,  naturally,  has  devoted 
a  good  deal  of  attention  to  me,  and  rarely  a  day  has 
passed  but  I  have  received  a  visit  from  him,  and  an 
exposition  of  his  views  on  the  responsibilities  attach- 
ing to  the  position  of  only  son  of  a  landed  proprietor, 
and  master  of  harriers.  With  his  ingrained  habit  of 
avoiding  controversy,  he  has  talked  in  general  terms, 
and  with  no  definite  personal  application,  until  one 
morning  at  the  beginning  of  the  month,  I  was  in  my 
rooms  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  an  article,  com- 
missioned by  the  Whirlwind,  entitled,  "If  Pontius 
Pilate  came  to  Peckham,"  when  my  parent  walked  in. 


174  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

I  excused  myself  doing  more,  for  the  moment,  than 
greeting  him,  and  left  him  to  wander  round  the  room 
at  his  leisure.  While  I  summed  up  the  Procurator's 
opinion  of  the  salubrious  suburb  in  a  few  trenchant 
sentences,  I  heard  my  father  turn  over  the  things  on 
the  table,  finger  "the  picture  gallery  and  jumble  sale 
combined  "  that  constituted  the  contents  of  the  man- 
telpiece, and  take  his  bearings  from  all  points  of  the 
compass. 

"  What  allowance  do  you  get,  Gerald  ? "  he  sud- 
denly exclaimed. 

I  turned  around  in  my  chair,  to  see  him  holding  a 
collection  of  manuscripts  between  his  finger  and 
thumb. 

"  Five  hundred  pounds,  sir,"  I  replied.  My  father 
always  likes  the  old-fashioned  mode  of  address  be- 
tween father  and  son. 

"Look  here,  I'll  make  it  eight  hundred  if  you'll 
chuck  all  this,"  and  he  proceeded  to  drop  the  offend- 
ing bundle  to  the  floor.  "  This  writing  business  is  not 
much  of  a  trade  at  any  time.  For  a  son  of  mine  it's 
sheer  nonsense." 

"  It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  make  the  offer,  sir." — 
It  was,  for  the  estate  hasn't  been  doing  well  for  years. 
— "  But  I  couldn't  lounge  about  at  home." 

"  There's  plenty  of  work  to  be  done,  Gerald,"  re- 
plied my  father,  shredding  some  black  tobacco  into 
his  pipe.  "  Lots  to  do  in  maintaining  the  traditions 
of  our  family  in  the  country,  and  performing  your 
duty  as  a  magistrate,  and  landowner.  Lots  to  do, 
lots  to  do,"  and  he  continued  to  mutter  it  for  some 
seconds. 

"  When  the  times  comes,"  I  said,  "  I'll  do  my  best ; 
but  until  then,  and  may  it  be  many  years  off  yet,  I 


JUNE  175 

can't  throw  up  what  I  feel  I  can  succeed  in.  What  do 
you  particularly  object  to,  sir,  in  the  profession  of 
literature  ?  " 

"  The  loss  of  self-respect/*  replied  my  father  fiercely. 
"  Look  at  the  papers.  They're  ruining  England,  and 
the  fellows  who  write  for  them  must  be  fools  or 
knaves,  or  both." 

"But  I  don't  write  for  the  papers,  or  only  very 
occasionally,"  I  said,  to  appease  his  wrath.  "The 
briefs  don't  come,  and  London  without  a  definite  job 
of  some  kind  is  impossible." 

"Ah,  that's  a  point  I  want  to  discuss  with  you, 
Gerald,"  my  father  exclaimed,  pulling  at  his  pipe  in  a 
manner  that  betrayed  his  excitement.  "  Your  mother 
and  I  wonder  what  keeps  you  in  town  so  much,  when 
there's  as  much  sport  as  you  could  wish  for  at  home. 
I  hope,  my  boy,  there's  no  woman  in  the  case.  I 
don't  like  to  inquire  too  closely  into  your  personal 
affairs,  but,"  and  he  turned  to  the  specimens  of  Eng- 
lish beauty  on  the  mantelpiece — "  there's  enough  here 
to  turn  any  man's  head.  Now,  this  young  lady! 
Might  I  ask  who  she  is?"  And  my  father  took  up 
the  latest  photograph  of  Cynthia  Cochrane.  It  was 
one  of  my  days  "  off  "  in  the  way  of  luck. 

"  That  ?  "  I  said  carelessly.  "  That's  an  '  out  of  the 
past,  I  come  to  thee,'  as  the  poem  says." 

My  father  gave  a  grim  smile. 

"The  poem  may  say  what  it  likes,  but  the  date  on 
this  is  only  a  month  old.  Don't  let  a  taste  for  this 
sort  of  thing  destroy  your  inclinations  for  orthodox 
matrimony.  I  shall  never  forget  poor  Boothby  tell- 
ing me,  one  night  at  the  club  more  than  twenty  years 
ago,  that  the  romance  that  runs  wild  is  the  worst 
preparation  for  the  one  that  has  to  go  in  bit  and 


176  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

bridle.  I  understood  the  point  better  when,  three  days 
later,  I  learned  that  Boothby  had  left  his  wife,  and  gone 
to  Buenos  Ayres  with  a  previous  attachment." 

"  I'll  play  the  game,  sir,  never  fear,  when  I  go  in 
to  bat/'  I  made  reply;  "but  at  present  I'm  in  the 
pavilion  looking  on." 

"Don't  get  out  in  the  first  over,  like  Boothby," 
said  my  father,  with  a  humor  evidently  caught  from 
the  infectious  gayety  of  London  in  June.  "  Remember, 
you've' got  to  carry  on  the  name  of  Hanbury  to  the 
next  generation.  Never  link  it  to  any  incident  which 
could  bring  discredit  on  it." 

So  saying,  he  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and 
departed,  leaving  me  with  a  feeling  uncommonly  like 
remorse  that  I  wasn't  cast  in  a  mold  to  delight  his 
family  instincts  in  a  more  direct  fashion.  Why  is 
Providence  so  perverse?  Ten  to  one  a  son  of  mine 
will  care  for  nothing  but  riding  to  hounds. 

I  always  pity  the  people  who  fancy  they  are  doing 
the  smart  thing  at  Royal  Ascot  when  they  rush  down 
from  town  in  a  motor  twice  as  big  as  the  Albert  Hall, 
make  an  elaborate  toilet,  surrounded  by  bandboxes 
and  dressing  cases,  outside  the  gates  of  the  Grand 
Stand,  fly  feverishly  round  the  Paddock  between  each 
race,  skip  on  and  off  coaches,  try  every  club  tent  in 
turn  to  see  which  has  the  best  strawberries,  and  pose 
below  the  royal  box  in  the  hopes  of  achieving  immor- 
tality on  the  illustrated  page  of  the  Daily  Looking- 
Glass. 

No,  the  sensible  person  travels  clown  quietly  in  a 
"  special,"  ensconcing  himself  upon  arrival  on  the  roof 
of  the  Enclosure,  where  he  gets  shade,  and  a  view  of 
the  course  uninterrupted  by  mountains  of  feathers, 


JUNE  irr 

and  from  which  he  can  look  down  in  comfort  on  the 
living  whirlpool  at  his  feet.  As  he  begins  lunch  just 
before  the  last  race,  he  takes  no  part  in  the  game  of 
grab  over  the  lobster  salad  and  the  truffled  chicken, 
and  he  sees  the  champagne  poured  over  somebody 
else;  he  smokes  his  cigar  in  peace  and  is  alert  to 
commandeer  the  prettiest  girl  to  share  his  aerie, 
while  a  rival  admirer  is  lying  helpless  from  indiges- 
tion and  incipient  sunstroke,  with  a  lump  of  ice  on 
his  head. 

It  was  in  the  latter  spirit  that  I  stage-managed  a 
party,  consisting  of  Dulcie,  Miss  Maitland,  and 
Archie  Haines  to  Ascot  on  Cup  Day.  Haines  had 
been  persuaded  by  me  to  give  the  "  bulls "  and 
"  bears  "  a  rest,  in  order  to  reward  my  sister  for  giv- 
ing me  an  opportunity  of  removing  the  bad  impres- 
sion I  had  left  with  Audrey  Maitland  at  the  Bratons' 
ball,  and  my  gratitude  further  showed  itself  in  my 
self-restraint  when  Dulcie  nearly  caused  us  to  lose  the 
train  at  Waterloo  by  taking  an  unconscionable  time 
over  her  coiffure. 

My  course  of  action  with  Miss  Maitland  had  been 
decided  on  beforehand.  I  would  show  the  girl  the 
true  repentance  I  felt  for  my  previous  outburst  by 
maintaining  a  dignified  reserve.  Then,  when  her 
feminine  intuition  had  led  her  to  put  the  right  con- 
struction on  my  silence,  and  to  convey  to  me,  as 
woman  so  subtly  can,  that  the  past  had  been  forgotten, 
and  forgiven,  I  would  resume  my  real,  unfettered  self, 
win  her  admiration  by  the  brilliance  of  my  conversa- 
tion, let  her  see  that  sentiment  and  its  pitfalls  were 
not  for  me,  perhaps  even  make  her  regret  that,  in 
obedience  to  the  vague  dictates  of  an  abstract  mentor 
called  maidenly  modesty,  she  had  spurned  such  a 


178  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

precious  possession  as  my  friendship  might  have  be- 
come. So  it  was  planned.  Events,  however,  fell  out 
quite  differently.  The  dignified  reserve  was  mistaken 
for  sulkiness,  and  Miss  Maitland  gave  her  undivided 
attention  to  Haines,  who,  flattered  by  the  interest  his 
remarks  aroused,  surpassed  himself  as  a  raconteur, 
and  an  amusing,  if  cynical,  critic  of  the  follies  of  the 
jday.  Of  any  man  but  Haines  I  should  have  felt  con- 
foundedly jealous,  but  Archie  has  all  the  instincts  of 
a  monk,  though  his  profession  of  stockbrokering  pro- 
vides him  with  few  opportunities  for  indulging  his 
peculiar  tastes.  In  his  scheme  of  things  women  are 
less  than  nothing.  I  wish  I  thought  the  same. 

Baffled,  I  tried  another  tack,  and  began  to  compete 
with  Haines  on  his  own  ground,  crowning,  my  wit 
with  the  aphorism,  modeled  on  the  best  masters,  that 
"the  comedies  of  this  world  are  the  tragedies  of  the 
next."  But  this  epigrammatic  effort  was  regarded  as 
irreverent  by  Miss  Audrey  Maitland,  who  takes  a 
Sunday-school  class  when  at  home,  and  is  on  terms  of 
intimacy  with  a  leading  official  of  the  Clergy  Susten- 
tatio'n  Fund.  Fortunately  we  arrived  at  our  destina- 
tion before  my  wounded  vanity  could  precipitate  a 
catastrophe. 

As  we  walked  from  the  station  along  the  private 
way  reserved  for  the  holders  of  Enclosure  vouchers, 
I  seized  my  courage  in  both  hands  to  inquire  of  Miss 
Maitland  whether  I  was  forgiven. 
"What  for?"  the  girl  asked. 
"  Why,  for  my  folly  when  we  last  met." 
"When  was  that?     I  have  forgotten  all  about  it." 
So,  I  had  created  such  a  slight  impression  on  Miss 
Audrey  Maitland  that  I  was  classed  with  the  horde  of 
casual  partners  of  a  season,  my  identity  obliterated 


JUNE  179 

by  the  next  infernal  idiot  to  be  introduced,  in  order 
that  he  might  chatter  nonsense  to  a  girl  a  thousand 
times  too  good  for  him.  I  could  have  torn  my 
voucher  into  fragments  in  that  bitter  moment,  and  re- 
turned to  town.  Much  Miss  Maitland  would  have 
cared ! 

"At  the  Bratons',"  I  replied,  as  calmly  as  I  could 
under  the  knockdown  blow  my  companion's  indiffer- 
ence had  dealt  me. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  Miss  Maitland  had  the  grace  to 
smile.  "You  were  rather  foolish,  but  then  you  are 
just  like  the  others — always  saying  things  you  don't 
mean." 

"To  girls  who  don't  care,"  I  added  quickly. 

"How  strange  you  are,  Mr.  Hanbury!  Why 
should  the  girl  be  serious  when  the  man  isn't?  No- 
body would  be  more  annoyed  than  your  philanderer 
at  finding  himself  confronted  with  real  romance,  when 
all  he  wanted  was  a  tinsel  flirtation." 

Here  was  a  foeman  worthy  of  my  steel,  in  all  con- 
science. Cup  Day  promised  to  be  something  more 
than  a  mere  fashionable  outing. 

"  Yes,"  I  retorted,  "  but  one  must  begin  somehow, 
and  flirtations,  as  often  as  not,  end  in  engagements." 

"  And  how  many  hearts,"  said  the  girl,  "  are  not 
broken,  waiting  for  that  transformation  to  take  place  ? 
For  her  own  sake  the  woman  must  not  wear  her  heart 
on  her  sleeve." 

"The  fashion  would  be  more  becoming,"  I  re- 
marked, "  than  the  hideous  bows  people  wear  at  pres- 
ent." 

We  were  crossing  the  highroad  to  the  Grand 
Stand,  and  if  we  outraged  conventions  at  Ascot  by 
seeming  too  serious  we  were  liable  to  be  refused  ad- 


180  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

mittance.  The  stewards  of  the  Jockey  Club  can  be 
very  strict  on  occasions. 

Miss  Maitland  drew  aside  to  let  me  pay  the  entrance 
money,  a  masculine  privilege  I  could  easily  forgo. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Hanbury,"  she  murmured,  so  that 
D'ulcie  should  not  hear.  "  You  administered  the  coup 
de  grace  very  neatly,  and  almost  painlessly.  I  am 
grateful." 

But  there  was  a  gleam  of  mischief  in  the  girl's  eyes 
that  spoke  less  of  gratitude  than  revenge.  Well,  I 
should  not  decline  a  further  encounter,  but  it  couldn't 
take  place  just  yet,  for  we  were  fairly  in  the  current  of 
smart  humanity  pouring  through  the  subway  that 
leads  to  the  paddock. 

The  Royal  Meeting  is  not  the  time  for  a  man  to 
engage  in  gloomy  speculation  as  to  the  place  he  holds 
in  the  estimation  of  the  girl  who  is  beginning  to 
usurp  the  place  of  honor  in  his  affections.  Haines 
and  I,  having  obtained  the  usual  "  good  things "  in 
the  way  of  tips,  were  anxious  to  back  our  fancy  with- 
out delay,  but  our  fair  companions  had  no  thoughts 
beyond  which  of  the  friends  whom  they  had  seen 
only  yesterday  they  should  meet  again,  as  though  the 
surroundings  of  the  Enclosure  had  some  magical 
property  in  conferring  on  people  virtues  and  graces 
which  they  conspicuously  lacked  in  London  itself. 
Anyhow,  whether  it  was  the  presence  of  Royalty, 
floating  like  an  impalpable  essence  in  the  air,  or  a 
sense  of  being  dressed  to  the  best  advantage,  Dulcie 
and  Audrey  Maitland  insisted  on  dragging  us  at  their 
heels,  while  they  fairly  reveled  in  their  surroundings. 
If  Haines  and  I  had  had  parasols  and  open-work 
necks  to  our  shirts  we  might  have,  too,  but,  con- 
demned to  the  outrageous  clothes  that  fashion  decrees 


JUNE  181 

for  our  sex,  we  cursed  and  perspired,  mere  driftwood 
on  the  tide  of  pleasure.  Dulcie  is  both  curious  and 
observant,  and  this  combination  of  qualities  kept  us 
busy.  She  wanted  to  know  why  Mrs.  Ffolliot  was 
never  seen  with  her  husband,  what  gave  Arthur  .Ham- 
mond the  scar  on  his  cheek,  why  the  Bolton  girls  wore 
such  dreadful  sashes,  and  who  rumor  said  was  en- 
gaged to  little  Lord  Dawlish. 

For  half  an  hour  the  comedy  of  social  intercourse 
Was  played  to  a  crowded  house.  We  shook  hands  with 
people  whom  we  couldn't  stand  the  sight  of,  because 
their  income  ran  into  five  figures,  or  their  cook  was  a 
Parisian ;  we  showered  small  talk  on  the  dull  and  the 
witty  alike;  and  made  no  distinction  of  compliments 
to  the  old  or  the  young,  the  fair  or  the  plain.  Our 
unanimity  and  lack  of  discrimination  were  wonderful. 
The  effervescence  of  badinage  and  repartee,  frothy 
and  heady,  foamed  over  one  and  all.  Light  glances 
shot  from  eye  to  eye.  The  "  frou-frou  "  of  frill  and 
flounce  gave  even  the  most  distant  handshake  the 
semblance  of  a  caress,  imparted  to  the  most  trivial 
remark  the  spice  of  an  epigram.  Dulcie  told  every 
girl  how  sweet  her  dress  looked,  while  Haines — and 
I,  so  far  as  I  could  without  compromising  myself  in 
the  eyes  of  Audrey  Maitland — conveyed  with  unmis- 
takable directness  of  gaze  that  we  thought  the  wearer 
sweeter  still.  The  grateful  looks  we  received  in  re- 
turn would  have  turned  our  heads  had  we  not  been 
seasoned — five  seasons,  to  be  exact. 

Luncheon  in  our  club  tent  introduced  us  to  the 
"  old  gang  " — Faith  Bellew  with  her  -Ranee  the  Major, 
whom  she  would  persist  in  addressing  as  "  Joe " ; 
Lady  Susan  Thurston  with  Dolly,  the  latter,  from  the 
warmth  of  her  manner  to  me,  evidently  enjoying  the 


183  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

fruits  of  my  success  in  prickin'g  the  bubble  of  Clive 
Massey's  stage-door  romance ;  George  Burn,  "  on  his 
own,"  his  presence  endured  by  Dulcie  with  an  expres- 
sion of  indifference  which  gave  the  utmost  credit  to 
her  self-control,  and  explained  by  himself  as  due  to 
the  fact  that,  with  the  thermometer  at  eighty  degrees 
in  the  shade,  he  couldn't  have  touched  a  morsel  if  he 
had  had  to  face  the  crimson  lake  of  Mrs.  Denver's 
complexion  during  the  meal  in  the  box  to  which,  at 
Kitty  Denver's  instigation,  Jie  had  been  invited.  At 
any  other  time  I  should  have  been  glad  to  welcome  so 
many  of  those  for  whom  I  entertain  the  warmest 
regard.  I  was,  however,  gracing  Cup  Day  with  my 
presence,  not  to  hear  George's  views  on  the  starting 
gate,  or  Lady  Susan's  recipe  for  mayonnaise  sauce, 
but  to  see  as  much  of  Audrey  Maitland  as  I  could. 
Short  of  actual  rudeness,  I  did  my  best  to  discourage 
inroads  on  my  monopoly  of  the  girl's  company,  not 
only  in  the  tent,  but  outside  in  the  Enclosure  where 
the  social  sheep  were  separated  from  the  goats,  and 
the  people  who  talked  in  shrill  tones  about  "two  to 
one,  bar  one  "  and  "  the  dear  Queen  "  were  limited,  by 
an  iron  paling  and  a  detachment  of  the  Metropolitan 
police,  to  gazing  on  the  object  of  their  familiar  ad- 
miration. My  sister  and  Haines,  however,  resisted 
every  effort  at  dislodgment.  It  was  not  till  past  four 
o'clock  that,  as  we  were  filing  through  the  turnstile 
leading  to  the  paddock,  I  had  occasion  to  address  a 
word  to  a  passing  acquaintance,  and  delay  Audrey 
Maitland  for  a  moment  of  time  sufficient  to  let  the 
others  vanish  from  our  view. 

"Quick,"  said  Miss  Maitland,  "before  we  miss 
them!" 

I  took  in  the  situation  in  a  flash. 


JUNE  183 

"  There  they  go;"  L  exclaimed,  with  deceitful  readi- 
ness, and  we  hastened  toward  the  subway,  a  route  I 
had  selected  as  best  qualified 'to  lift  the  yoke  of  an 
unnatural  chaperonage  from  my  galled  shoulders. 

"  Why,  they're  going  to.  the  station ! "  I  said,  when 
we  emerged  by  the  entrance  gates  behind  the  Grand 
Stand.  "They  must  have  concluded  we  should 
follow." 

"  Are  you  certain  ?  "  asked  Miss  Maitlancl,  with  a 
lack  of  the  implicit  confidence  a  woman  should  repose 
in  a  man. 

"  Abso-bally-lutely !  I  could  tell  Dulcie's  hat  any- 
where, and  there's  old  Haines  slouching  along  beside 
her!" 

Before  this  mythical  accuracy  of  vision  my  com- 
panion's doubts  vanished,  and  without  more  ado  we 
proceeded  to  the  station  where — the  gods  be  praised — 
a  train  was  standing  by  the  London  platform. 

"  Let's  jump  in  here,"  I  said  hurriedly,  at  the  door 
of  the  first  carriage,  which  contained  empty  places. 
"  The  others  will  have  got  in  farther  down." 

"Oh,  but  I  must  find  Dulcie."  Audrey  Maitland 
spoke  in  distress. 

"  You'll  be  as  right  as  rain.  Hurry  up ;  the  guard 
is  waving  his  flag." 

Miss  Maitland  sprang  into  the  carriage ;  I  followed. 
A  pause  ensued,  during  which  nothing  particular  hap- 
pened save  that  the  train  remained  stationary. 

"Hasn't  the  engine  driver  seen  the  guard's  sig- 
nal?" The  question  came  from  the  girl. 

"  He  can't  have,"  I  replied  cheerfully.  Had  I  not 
won  all  along  the  line? 

"Are  you  quite  sure  the  guard  was  waving  his 
flag?" 


184  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

Miss  Maitland's  persistence  over  a  trivial  detail 
annoyed  me.  I  made  a  slip  of  the  tongue. 

"I  expect  so." 

"  Expect  ?  "  Audrey  Maitland  repeated  the  word 
in  a  puzzled  tone,  then  she  looked  at  me.  "  But  you 
must  have  seen  him  do  it.  Or  were  you  inventing? 
And  if  about  the  guard,  why  not  about  the  others? 
Mr.  Hanbury,  did  you  really  see  your  sister  ?  " 

"  Inventing?  "     I  could  do  no  better  than  that. 

The  truth  in  all  its  naked  hideousness  burst  upon 
my  inquisitor.  She  got  up  to  leave  the  carriage.  At 
that  moment  the  train  started,  after  doing  all  the  mis- 
chief it  could  by  its  dilatoriness.  Miss  Maitland  re- 
sumed her  seat  with  more  speed  than  dignity.  When 
she  had  recovered  her  composure,  she  began  again. 

"  What  colored  hat  was  your  sister  wearing  ?  " 

Miss  Maitland  was  going  to  make  certain  of  my 
guilt  before  she  sentenced  me.  I  couldn't  for  the  life 
of  me  recall  the  niceties  of  Dulcie's  costume,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  her  unpunctuality  in  the  morning 
should  have  impressed  them  on  my  masculine  mem- 
ory. 

"  Blue,"  I  replied.     "  No,  I  mean  pink." 

"  I  see  that  men  " — what  withering  scorn  Audrey 
Maitland  put  into  her  voice — "  will  stoop  to  anything 
to  get  their  way.  I  know  now,  Mr.  Hanbury,  how 
much  I  can  trust  you  in  future." 

"  Aren't  you  breaking  a  butterfly  on  the  wheel  ?  "  I 
asked.  "  I  only  practiced  a  harmless  little  decep- 
tion." 

But  to  the  stern  judge  of  two-and-twenty  my  con- 
duct seemed  neither  harmless  nor  petty.  So  for  the 
rest  of  the  journey  I  was  treated  as  too  despicable  to 
be  spoken  to.  I  managed  to  mitigate  my  punishment 


JUNE  185 

by  staring"  at  Audrey  Maitland.  A  man  in  the  dock 
is  justified  in  behaving  like  a  criminal. 

"  Thank  you  for  a  most  enjoyable  hour,"  I  said,  as 
we  disembarked  at  Waterloo.  "I  didn't  know  any 
woman  could  hold  her  tongue  for  an  hour." 

"  Don't  show  yourself  rude  as  well  as  untruthful," 
retorted  Miss  Maitland. 

"Don't  lose  your  temper  as  well  as  your  sense  of 
humor,"  I  replied,  and  we  parted. 

Browbeat  a  woman  and  she  learns  to  love  you ;  give 
in  to  her  and  she  despises  you.  That  has  been  my 
experience.  Although  facts  seem  against  me  so  far, 
I  don't  believe  Miss  Audrey  Maitland  is  going  to 
falsify  it. 


JULY 


Jenny  kissed  me  -when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in; 
Time,  you  thief!  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 

Jenny  kissed  me. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


JULY 

'A   Festival   in   Bohemia — Lords   and   Ladies — The 
Major  married — A  Scene  behind  the  Scenes 

¥  T  seems  altogether  wrong  that  a  woman  should  be 
•••  able  so  to  affect  a  man's  moods  as  to  drive  him 
from  his  customary  social  haunts  to  hide  his  wounded 
feelings  behind  a  veil  of  Bohemianism.  Yet  that  is 
what  Miss  Audrey  Maitland  has  done  for  Gerald 
Hanbury,  by  maintaining  an  attitude  of  frigid  hauteur 
on  the  occasions  when  she  has  met  him  since  the  affair 
at  Royal  Ascot.  Accordingly,  to  mark  his  sense  of 
the  girl's  injustice  he  has  avoided  the  Park,  refused  all 
the  offers  of  hospitality  which  are  the  birthright  of  the 
bachelor,  put  his  dress  clothes  into  lavender,  and  once 
again  sought  the  company  of  Frank  Steward,  the 
journalist. 

Since  I  last  saw  him,  some  two  months  ago,  Steward 
has  been  promoted  to  the  assistant  editor's  chair  of 
the  Evening  Star,  where,  from  eight-thirty  in  the 
morning  to  six  in  the  evening,  he  keeps  the  staff  at 
high  pressure,  two  messengers  on  the  run,  and  a 
"  hello  "  girl  earning  every  penny  of  her  salary  in  the 
telephone  exchange.  And,  as  if  his  professional  duties 
in  Fleet  Street  were  not  sufficient,  my  friend  has  been 
hard  at  work  for  Mason  of  the  "Alcazar,"  making 
such  alterations  in  the  leading  lady's  part  of  the 
musical  comedy,  The  Bird  in  the  Bush,  as  will  fit  it 
for  Cynthia  Cochrane,  the  change  of  cast  involving 
the  writing  of  several  new  songs,  including  a  topical 
ditty,  "  That's  how  Cleopatra  got  the  Needle." 

But,  in  spite  of  the  load  of  responsibilities  he  bears 

189 


190  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

as  a  consequence  of  his  growing  reputation,  Steward 
contrives  to  fulfill  all  manner  of  engagements,  and 
with  especial  zest  when  I  appear  on  the  scene,  for  he 
holds  the  theory,  very  flattering  to  my  own  self-esteem, 
that  my  temperament,  impulsive,  yet  critical,  intent  on 
sucking  every  drop  of  juice  from  the  orange  the  while 
it  subjects  the  fruit  to  the  closest  analysis,  heightens 
his  sense  of  enjoyment.  As  for  myself,  I  know  that 
Society  appears  dust  and  ashes  to  me  when  in  Stew- 
ard's company.  I  breathe  the  oxygen  of  heaven,  not 
the  carbonic  acid  gas  of  earth.  I  am  no  longer  a  pup- 
pet dancing  to  strings  controlled  by  feminine  fingers, 
but  a  man  filled  with  the  wonder  of  life,  and  the 
strength  to  seize  the  magic  thing  ere  it  passes — with 
youth — forever. 

To  have  one's  name  inscribed  on  the  roll  of  Stew- 
ard's friendship  is  a"  privilege  that  opens  the  doors  of 
many  Enchanted  Gardens  from  which  the  majority  of 
mankind  is  rigidly  excluded.  Thus  it  was  with  him 
that  I  went  to  the  Boo j  urn's  Club,  hidden  away  in 
mean  streets,  of  which  the  members'  list  and  the 
visitors'  book  between  them  contained  every  name 
famous  for  generations  in  all  walks  of  life.  I  looked 
on  masters  of  their  craft  at  play  till  my  head  whirled 
with  conflicting  emotions,  and  Steward  loomed  before 
me  as  miraculous  a  guide  as  Mephistopheles  did  to 
Faust  when  the  fiend  showed  the  astonished  doctor 
the  kingdoms  of  the  world.  A  halo  was  cast  over 
that  night's  proceedings  by  the  punch,  the  mellow 
flavor  of  which  proved  an  instant  anodyne  for  care. 
One  buried  one's  face  in  the  bowl,  and  withdrew,  heed- 
less of  sorrow,  and  little  wonder,  for  the  fragrance  of 
the  draught  had  soothed  the  researches  of  Gibbon, 
and  checked  the  garrulous  folly  of  Goldsmith. 


JULY  191 

When  we  have  not  been  feasting  with*  those  pagan 
gods,  who,  despite  the  assertions  of  orthodoxy,  still 
linger  in  our  midst,  Steward  and  I  have  spent  hours 
in  discovering  the  queer  haunts  that  lie  just  off  the 
well-trodden  thoroughfares,  surveying  the  monuments 
of  the  past,  disturbing  memories  hidden  under  the 
dust  of  other  days.  Having  the  traditions  of  London 
stored  in  his  memory,  the  journalist  can  tell  the  his- 
tory of  any  building,  and  of  the  men  who  have  played 
a  part  in  it,  thus  enriching  the  wanderings  during 
which  we  have  explored  the  Savoy  and  the  Temple, 
mingled  with  the  strange  coteries  of  Bloomsbury  and 
Wardour  Street,  and  generally  contrived  to  squeeze  a 
quart  of  sensation  into  a  pint  pot  of  incident.  On  such 
occasions  his  conversation,  based  on  wide  views  and 
cosmopolitan  sympathies,  makes  Steward  an  ideal 
companion.  "  Tout  comprendre,  c'est  tout  pardon- 
ner"  He  has  seen  men  and  women  of  every  class  and 
nationality.  Understanding  them,  he  has  found  some- 
thing lovable  in  each. 

But,  unlike  so  many,  my  Fleet  Street  friend's 
humanity  does  not  weaken  his  courage  and  resource. 
To  my  mind,  he  gave  conspicuous  proof  of  these 
qualities  only  two  nights  ago,  when  we  were  both 
present  at  the  fete  given  by  the  proprietor  of  Jose's 
Hotel  and  Restaurant  to  his  patrons  in  celebration  of 
the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  his  wedding  to  Madame 
Jose,  the  comely  lady  who  superintends  the  comforts 
of  the  customers,  checks  the  bills,  and  receipts  them 
at  one  and  the  same  time  as  she  scolds  the  waiters  and 
shrieks  shrill  orders  in  Castilian  down  the  kitchen  lift, 
making  the  long  room  with  the  gilt  mirrors  as  redo- 
lent of  her  vigorous  self,  as  it  already  is  of  garlic  and 
red  pepper.  For  years  Steward  has  taken  his  Satur- 


192  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

day  night  dinner  there,  because  he .  likes-  to  rub 
shoulders  with  the  mixed  clientele  of  the  place,  and  for 
the  sake  of  a  certain  savory  dish  of  fowl  cooked  with 
rice,  cockscombs  and  truffles,  a  liking  for  which 
he  acquired  during  a  visit  to  Madrid  as  a  special 
correspondent. 

Being  in  his  flat  when  the  invitation  to  the  fete  in 
question  arrived,  I  was  included  in  Steward's  accept- 
ance, for,  as  he  said  to  me,  "  Old  Jose  can't  do  without 
the  little  paragraphs  I  slip  in  for  him  when  news  is 
slack,  and  the  '  form '  wants  filling  up." 

In  our  oldest  clothes,  Steward  and  I  turned  up 
almost  as  ill-favored  scallywags  as  the  rest  of  the 
company.  And  they  were  a  crew!  Flowing  black 
ties  as  big  as  napkins,  hair  as  long  as  lions'  manes, 
scarf  pins  that  looked  like  stair  rods,  and  ear  orna- 
ments the  size  of  curtain  rings !  One  bearded  fellow 
sat  in  his  frilled  shirt  sleeves,  with  a  colored  sash  at 
the  waist  to  keep  him  together,  while  a  personage, 
pointed  out  as  the  conductor  of  a  restaurant  orchestra 
taking  a  night  off,  might  have  been  mistaken  for  a 
hussar  in  his  braided  uniform  of  scarlet  and  blue. 
The  few  attempts  at  orthodox  evening  dress  were  not 
very  successful — a  would-be  epicure,  with  no  white 
shirt  in  his  wardrobe,  had  substituted  a  flannel  one 
which  needed  washing;  another,  proud  in  the  posses- 
sion of  the  required  article,  had  marred  the  effect  by 
writing  across  its  starched  surface  in  black  chalk, 
"  Felicidades  " — that  is  to  say,  "  All  manner  of  happi- 
ness." The  ladies  were  no  whit  behind  the  gentlemen 
in  eccentricity  of  appearance.  Scarfs  over  the  head, 
long  gloves,  dresses  low  and  high,  from  brocade  to 
cotton,  a  profusion  of  beads  and  jet,  gold  crucifixes 
and  bronze  necklets — such  were  the  feminine  fashions 


JULY  193 

which  thronged  Jose's  restaurant  at  7  P.  M.  on  Tues- 
day. 

The  banquet  to  which  Signor  Jose's  guests  sat 
down  in  any  order  they  pleased,  was  a  procession  of 
dishes  which  I  failed  to  identify  by  the  Italian  of  the 
menu,  but  which  consisted,  to  my  palate,  of  chicken, 
served  as  risotto,  pilaff,  and  in  other  outlandish  dis- 
guises, but  still  chicken.  We  ate  the  bones  in  the 
soup,  the  breast  was  minced  and  hashed,  the  legs 
appeared  decked  with  little  frills,  and  surrounded  by  a 
bodyguard  of  preserved  cherries,  until  finally  the  car- 
case, in  the  language  of  Mrs.  Beeton,  was  "  garnished 
with  greens  and  served  hot."  I  was  consumed  with 
curiosity  (like  the  first  oyster)  as  to  what  further  out- 
rage could  be  inflicted  on  the  domestic  fowl  by  the 
wizards  below,  when  the  courses  made  a  sudden 
plunge  into  the  sweets;  the  quaint  assemblage,  ab- 
sorbed hitherto  in  the  solids,  burst  out  into  a  polyglot 
uproar  that  created  the  same  cacophony  of  sound  as 
the  Small  Cats'  House  at  the  Zoo,  and  my  right-hand 
neighbor,  a  buxom  lady  with  strongly  marked 
Southern  features,  began  to  ply  me  with  questions  as 
to  "  Vot  you  call  dis  een  Inglesa  ?  "  much  as  if  I  were 
a  pupil  of  the  Berlitz  System.  I  parried  her  linguistic 
problems  as  best  I  could,  till  Steward,  providentially 
seated  on  my  other  side,  drew  my  attention  to  the 
bearded  person  in  shirt  sleeves,  who,  having  excited, 
by  his  appetite,  the  voracious  rivalry  of  another  pictur- 
esque swashbuckler,  was  engaged  in  a  duel  over  the 
syllabub  for  his  country's  honor. 

"  You'll  see  some  funny  sights  before  dawn,"  whis- 
pered Steward  to  me. 

"  It'll  be  difficult  to  see  anything  at  all,"  I  replied, 
"if  they  smoke  much  of  the  stuff  they've  begun  on," 


194  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

for  the  clouds  in  process  of  issuing  from  tKe  mouths 
and  nostrils  of  both  men  and  women  were  of  so.  dense 
and  pungent  a  nature  that  a  smoke  helmet  would  have 
been  a  boon.  An  Englishman  could  have  equally  well 
dispensed  with  the  toasts,  sounding  to  uninstructed 
ears  like  "Grazia  Sancho  Panza  Maceroni  Dan 
Leno,"  although  the  strange  audience  clashed  glasses 
and  stamped  the  floor  in  perfect  comprehension  of  the 
meaning.  This  ritual  over,  the  guests  combined  their 
efforts  to  clear  away  the  debris  of  the  meal  with  a 
readiness  that  surprised  Steward  and  myself,  till,  upon 
the  bare  boards  being  covered  with  green  cloths,  the 
paraphernalia  of  "  faro"  were  produced  as  if  by  magic, 
and -the  mystery  explained.  The  real  business  of  the 
night  was  about  to  be  entered  on,  and  the  respectable 
surroundings  of  a  restaurant  turned  into  an  excel- 
lent imitation  of  a  Neapolitan  gambling  resort.  Jose's 
protest  in  the  interest  of  his  license  was  speedily  over- 
borne, and  he  himself  soon  as  flushed  with  the  fever 
of  the  play  as  his  patrons.  As  I  stood  in  the  back- 
ground, the  scene  illumined  by  guttering  candles, 
which  had  replaced  the  electric  light  from  considera- 
tions of  safety  and  the  police,  watching  the  fierce,  dark 
faces  which  mirrored  the  passions  evoked  by  the 
hazard  of  the  game,  I  felt  myself  anywhere  on  earth 
rather  than  within  a  hundred  yards  of  Piccadilly 
Circus,  and  when  Southern  blood  precipitated  the 
inevitable  crisis,  I  acted  my  part  with  the  utmost 
sang-froid. 

Some  one's  stake  was  in  dispute;  every  one  in  the 
vicinity,  croupiers  included,  interfered  at  first  with 
conflicting  opinions,  next  with  abuse,  a  blow  was 
struck,  and  a  sudden  lurch  of  the  disputants,  by  this 
time  locked  in  personal  conflict,  upset  a  portion  of  the 


JULY  195 

table,  and  with  it  "  Shirt  Sleeves  "  and  the  winnings  he 
was  engaged  in  counting.  In  a  second  he  was  on  his 
feet,  scowling  and  ominous.  Before  a  hand  could  be 
raised  to  stop  him,  he  had  plunged  a  short  knife  into 
the  shoulder  of  the  nearest  bystander,  and  stampeded 
through  the  frightened  crowd  to  the  upper  regions. 

At  that  moment  of  stress,  when  the  air  was  harsh 
with  the  weeping  of  hysterical  women,  and  the  cries 
of  threatening  men,  one  individual  alone  rose  to  the 
height  of  action — Steward. 

"  Hi,  Jose,"  he  yelled,  "  clear  the  women  out,  and 
for  God's  sake  straighten  up  this  mess  before  the 
police  get  wind  of  it !  Some  one  " — he  went  on,  clear- 
ing a  circle  round  the  victim,  who  was  squawking  on 
the  ground — "  some  one  bind  up  this  chap's  shoulder. 
It's  only  a  flesh  wound.  The  rest  come  along  after 
me." 

And  seizing  a  poker  from  the  grate,  my  friend 
dashed  toward  the  stairs. 

Then  for  the  gallant  band,  who  followed  Steward's 
leadership,  and  in  the  ranks  of  which  I  found  myself 
next  to  the  conductor,  the  splendors  of  his  uniform 
dimmed  by  the  vicissitudes  of  the  evening,  there 
ensued  a  wild  hue  and  cry,  in  the  course  of  which  we 
ransacked  cupboards,  linen  chests,  and  boxes,  ex- 
plored the  mysteries  of  Madame's  wardrobe,  and 
gleaned  much  knowledge  of  the  domestic  economy  of 
the  Hotel  Jose.  Beds  were  belabored,  corners  probed 
with  the  emergency  weapons  we  had  provided  our- 
selves with,  and  any  and  every  place  searched  where 
a  man  might  lurk.  Not  till  the  attics  were  reached 
did  a  locked  door  give  promise  of  our  quarry.  To 
Steward's  hoarse  command  to  open,  the  only  reply  was 
a  scraping  noise  suggestive  of  a  chest  of  drawers  being 


196  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

dragged  into  position.  The  barrier  was  ineffectual, 
for  before  our  united  strength  the  whole  structure  gave 
way,  and  in  the  wreckage,  revealed  by  the  candle  of 
the  besieging  force,  stood  the  figure  of  the  culprit, 
threatening  us  with  his  open  knife. 

Steward  never  hesitated  an  instant,  although  phy- 
sically no  match  for  his  opponent.  Dashing  in,  he 
dodged  the  other's  thrust,  and  dealt  a  crashing  blow 
with  his  poker  right  across  the  forehead  of  the 
foreigner.  "  Shirt  Sleeves  "  fell  like  a  log. 

"  Drag  him  out,"  said  Steward,  as  coolly  as  though 
nothing  unusual  had  happened.  "  He'll  have  a  head- 
ache that  will  make  him  feel  sick  for  a  week,  and  a 
scar  to  carry  to  his  grave.  That's  better  than  putting 
him  in  the  dock,  and  getting  this  place  shut  up  as  a 
gambling  den." 

So  saying,  he  threw  his  poker  away  and  descended 
the  stairs. 

When  we  got  below  the  restaurant  was  orderly  once 
more,  not  a  sign  of  baize  or  counters  to  be  seen,  and 
the  wounded  man  removed  to  a  hospital  where  no 
questions  would  be  asked.  As  for  "  Shirt  Sleeves,"  he 
was  packed  off  in  a  cab  with  two  compatriots,  still 
half-stunned  by  his  blow,  which  would  serve  to  remind 
him,  far  better  than  a  term  of  imprisonment,  of  the 
disadvantages  of  acting  in  England  in  the  free  and 
easy  way  he  was  accustomed  to  in  Naples,  or  which- 
ever city  had  had  the  misfortune  to  produce  him. 

Steward's  only  comment  on  the  proceedings,  made 
as  we  strolled  away  across  Leicester  Square,  was  char- 
acteristic : 

"  When  next  I  dine  with  a  gentleman  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  I  shoot  at  sight." 

The  incident  has  left  me  with  the  impression  that 


JULY  197 

perhaps  the  charms  of  Bohemia  have  been  overstated. 
My  unconventionality  stops  short  of  knives. 

•  •  *  •  * 

My  father  at  last  justified  his  forty  years'  member- 
ship of  the  M.  C.  C.  by  securing  a  carriage  ticket  for 
the  Eton  and  Harrow  match  at  Lord's  this  year,  the 
position  allotted  being  just  opposite  the  Grand  Stand, 
in  the  critical  spot  for  seeing  the  promenade  and  the 
play.  So  we  hired  a  sort  of  coach  and  wagonette 
arrangement,  and  asked  everybody  who  had  shoot- 
ing or  fishing  to  give  away  to  come  to  it.  At  least 
that  was  the  idea,  but  it  resolved  itself  into  my  people 
retiring  into  the  covered  seats  of  Block  A  away  from 
the  glare  and  the  crowd,  Dulcie  and  myself  being  left 
to  do  the  honors.  Dulcie's  social  sense,  as  I  have 
said  before,  is  not  acute,  and  she  preferred  to  watch 
the  game  from  the  inside  seat.  I  was  satisfied  with 
buying  a  "  card  of  the  match,  c'rect  card,"  at  the  fall 
of  each  wicket,  and  hailing  my  acquaintances  as  they 
struggled  by,  for  between  the  hours  of  three  and  six 
on  the  Friday  of  the  Eton  and  Harrow,  all  Society  is 
to  be  met  with  at  St.  John's  Wood,  provided  the 
weather  conditions  be  propitious.  This  year  they 
were  the  hottest  in  living  memory.  The  pitch  of  the 
pathway  bubbled,  the  seams  of  the  woodwork  gaped, 
one  could  have  cooked  eggs  on  the  brickwork  of  the 
Pavilion,  and  the  free  seats  were  a  bank  of  sunshades 
and  panamas.  The  tropical  heat  didn't  worry  me,  for 
I  had  an  iced  drink  tucked  away  under  the  seat,  an 
awning  over  my  head,  nothing  to  do  but  return  the 
bows  of  parboiled  partners  and  their  mammas,  and 
give  languid  attention  to  George  Burn,  who,  having 
made  the  discovery  that  the  Hanbury  carriage  offered 
the  best  point  of  vantage  to  which  he  had  access,  had 


198  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

become  a  fixture  by  my  side.  I  could  have  endured 
this  cool  imposition  better  had  George  been  in  his 
ordinary  careless  mood,  but  on  this  occasion  he  had 
a  tale  of  woe  to  relate.  Apparently  both  Lady  Lucy 
Goring  and  Kitty  Denver  were  under  the  impression 
my  erratic  friend  had  proposed  to  them,  and  he  was 
at  a  loss  how  to  remove  the  misapprehension  from 
their  minds.  George  had  conveyed  to  each  that  he 
cared  for  her,  while  omitting  to  mention  how  many 
others  shared  those  same  elastic  affections  of  his. 

"What  happens  when  you  meet  them  at  the  same 
ball  ? "  I  asked,  after  every  available  fact  had  been 
retailed  to  my  patient  ears.  "You  must  lead  a  Box 
and  Cox  life  keeping  them  apart." 

"Don't  laugh  at  me,  Hanbury,  there's  a  good  fel- 
low ! "  said  George,  making  a  wry  face.  "  I'm  in  an 
awful  hole.  The  worst  is,  I  find  it  so  fatally  easy  to 
get  into  the  good  graces  of  the  sex,  that,  before  I  know 
what  I'm  doing,  I'm  calling  a  girl  by  her  Christian 
name,  and  asking  her  to  a  radium  party  at  the  club." 

"  I  can't  offer  you  any  help,"  I  made  reply,  "  except 
to  lend  you  enough  to  clear  out  of  the  country  till  the 
scandal  has  blown  over." 

George's  expression  changed. 

"By  Jove,  talking  of  scandal,  Hanbury,  that  little 
Ponting-Mallow  woman  is  going  the  pace,  from  all 
accounts." 

"  Who's  the  fellow?"  I  asked  eagerly.  After  all, 
it's  never  too  hot  to  talk  scandal. 

"He's  a  soldier-man  on  leave  from  India — mus- 
tache curling  to  the  back  of  his  head — hat  stuck  over 
one  ear — bronzed  son  of  Mars — knows  his  world  like 
a  book." 

"  Yes,  a  betting-TSoolc.    I've  met  trie  type." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  P.-M.  was  introduced  to  the  hero  at  a 


JULY  199 

reception  of  the  Society  for  the  Suffocation  of  Social- 
ists. She's  married  to  a  man  old  enough  to  be  her 
father;  Rowan — that's  the  gallant  captain — a  fine 
figure  of  a  man  to  a  woman  who  is  unhappy  at  home, 
is  kicking  his  heels  in  London  on  nine  months'  leave, 
knowing  nobody  except  the  hall  porter  of  his  club 
and  the  cloakroom  attendants  at  the  music  halls ;  Mrs. 
Mallow  is  a  clinging  little  person ;  the  captain  doesn't 
object  to  be  clung  to.  But  the  fellow  ought  to  know 
better  than  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  Boulter's  Lock  with 
her  on  two  Sundays  running,  and  give  her  supper  at 
the  Continental.  There  you  are,  mon  ami!" 

"  Talk  of  the  devil "  said  I  at  this  moment,  and 

we  both  stopped  our  conversation  to  watch  the  offend- 
ing couple  pass. 

Rowan  was  a  handsome  enough*  man  in  a  bounder- 
ish  way,  but  he  had  a  recklessness  of  gait,  and  an 
effeminacy  of  dress  that  augured  ill  for  his  chivalry 
and  devotion  when  his  vanity  was  sated,  or  his  sense 
of  danger  aroused.  His  companion,  fluffy  and  petite, 
had  a  vivacity  and  radiance  of  expression,  bred  of 
sheer  happiness  at  being  with  her  soldier,  that  empha- 
sized, by  contrast,  the  discontented  spirit  she  showed 
in  her  own  home.  I  raised  my  hat  to  Mrs.  Ponting- 
Mallow  in  my  most  impresse  manner.  It  was  none 
of  my  business  to  cast  the  first  stone,  and  she  would 
probably  need  all  our  sympathy  and  charity  in  the  near 
future. 

Just  then  Massey  and  Dolly  Thurston  hove  into 
sight,  and  came  to  a  halt  below  our  aerie.  I  had  not 
seen  the  former  since  the  good  work  I  had  accom- 
plished on  his  behalf  in  Alice  Howard's  flat,  but  he 
bore  me  no  malice  over  the  closing  down  of  his 
chorus-girl  romance,  unless  any  such  feeling  could  be 
read  into  his  remark — "  Been  doing  any  more  inter- 


200  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

fering  lately,  Hanbury?"  which  he  made  while  Dolly 
was  occupied  with  George. 

"  You  can  drive  tandem  again  as  soon  as  you  like," 
I  retorted  on  Massey,  with  an  indifferent  air,  for,  to 
tell  the  truth,  the  love  affairs  of  babes  and  sucklings 
don't  interest  me.  One  sees  too  much  of  such  things 
in  the  Season  to  get  excited  over  them. 

I  let  Dulcie  take  the  pair  away  for  lemonade  and 
chocolate  eclairs,  and  returned  to  George  and  his 
scandal-mongering  tongue. 

"There's  that  Miss  Maitland  who  was  spending 
Easter  with  you,"  he  said,  as  I  again  joined  him  aloft. 

I  searched  the  crowd  with  eager  eyes,  to  see  Audrey 
with  an  Eton  cousin.  The  blue  bow  that  was  pinned 
to  her  lace  frock  just  matched  the  color  of  her  eyes. 
The  recognition  I  got  was  not  very  cordial,  but  prob- 
ably the  heat  affected  her. 

"Won't  you  come  and  have  some  tea?" 

I  raised  my  tones  to  carry,  and  gesticulated  toward 
Dulcie  in  the  background. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  the  reply  came  back.  "  I've  got 
three  tables  and  a  coach  to  visit  somehow." 

"  May  I  walk  round  with  you?  "  I  continued  in  des- 
peration, for  the  vision  was  entrancing. 

"  Bobby  is  escort,  thank  you !  "  And  Miss  Mait- 
land and  her  Eton  boy  were  swallowed  up  in  the 
stream  flowing  toward  the  tents  on  the  practice- 
ground. 

"  Weren't  you  rather  gone  on  her?  "  asked  George, 
watching  the  retreating  figures  out  of  sight. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  I  said  with  vehemence. 

"That  fellow  Hookham  wants  to  marry  her,"  he 
continued  lightly. 

"  Why,  he  drinks  like  a  fish ! " 


JULY  201 

"It's  the  first  I've  heard  of  it,  and  I've  met  him 
pretty  often." 

I  felt  an  unreasoning  anger  rising. 

"Her  people  couldn't  possibly  let  her  do  such  a 
monstrous  thing.  I'd  break  every  bone  in  his  body 
if  he  dared  to  think  of  it !  " 

"  My  dear  Hanbury,"  George  interrupted,  "  you 
said  a  moment  ago  that  you  didn't  care  a  scrap  about 
the  girl,  and  now  you  lose  your  temper  because  some- 
body else  does !  She  can't  remain  single  for  ever  just 
because  you  won't  either  marry  her  yourself  or  let 
anybody  else  do  so." 

"  She's  much  too  good  to  throw  herself  away  on  a 
fellow  like  Hookham." 

"  Jealous  old  ass !  " 

"  Isn't  that  Lady  Lucy  making  her  way  over  here  ?  " 
I  asked  George. 

His  face  fell,  but  there  was  no  escape  save  into  the 
fruit  salad  on  the  seat  behind.  Perched  up  on  the 
carriage,  he  was  a  cynosure  for  every  eye. 

"So  long,  Hanbury,"  he  said,  as  he  descended  to 
his  fate — a  quite  endurable  one  in  pink  muslin.  "  I 
invented  that  yarn  about  Hookham  to  pull  your  solemn 
leg.  Anybody  can  see  you  are  badly  hit." 

I !  hit  ? — That's  all  the  thanks  I  got  for  listening  to 
George's  interminable  stories  about  himself.  Next 
time  we  have  a  carriage  at  Lord's,  I  swear  I'll  put 
barbed  wire  round  the  box  seat  and  keep  it  to 
myself. 

•  •  ;•  !•  • 

The  duties  of  a  best  man,  I've  always  thought,  were 
to  pay  the  parson's  fee  and  kiss  the  bride.  Nothing 
of  the  sort.  He  has  to  buy  the  ring,  and  the  brides- 
maids' presents,  keep  the  peace  between  the  bride's 


203  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

mother  and  the  bridegroom's,  choose  the  hymns  and 
the  place  for  the  honeymoon,  and  stand  drinks  all 
round.  I  know  all  about  it  since  the  dose  of  experi- 
ence that  Griffiths'  wedding  gave  me.  I  only  accepted 
the  post  of  "  bottle-washer  in  chief  "  because,  without 
my  moral  support,  the  Major  absolutely  refused  to 
go  through  the  ceremony.  And  it  was  just  as  well  I 
did,  since  the  Major's  idea  of  marriage  had  been  thus 
expressed  to  me : 

"  Hang  the  church  business,  Hanbury !  I'm  all  in 
favor  of  trotting  in  and  out  of  a  registry  office,  and 
then  putting  in  a  fortnight's  salmon-fishing  before 
Newmarket." 

"  My  dear  Major,"  I  had  replied,  "  if  you  try  to  cut 
out  '  The  Voice  that  breathed  o'er  Eden '  you'll  hear 
a  voice  breathing  anything  but  'Eden'  to  you. 
You've  got  to  do  the  thing  on  the  right  lines,  unless 
you  want  to  be  like  the  Knoxes,  who  said  they  hated 
the  fuss  of  a  society  show,  and  were  married  quietly, 
he  in  his  golfing  kit  and  she  in  her  traveling  dress, 
before  the  Registrar  of  the  Strand.  The  only  present 
they  got  was  a  silver-gilt  porringer  from  an  old  aunt, 
who,  hearing  that  some  ceremony  had  taken  place, 
assumed  it  was  a  christening,  and  now  Millie  has  to 
wear  her  wedding  ring  outside  her  glove  to  convince 
people  she  really  is  a  lawful  wife." 

The  Major  wasn't  as  amenable  to  advice  as  I  had 
imagined,  or  wild  horses  wouldn't  have  made  me 
undertake  the  job  of  overseer.  He  was  continually 
being  seized  with  what  he  called  "  brain  waves,"  but 
which  I  have  no  hesitation  in  characterizing  as  in- 
cipient madness.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  stop  him 
giving  the  bridesmaids  brooches  modeled  as  little 
drinking  horns,  and  one  of  his  presents  to  the  bride 


JULY  203 

was  a  combination  liqueur  set  and  card  table,  his 
excuse  for  the  solecism  being  that  it  would  be  "so 
jolly  handy  in  between  the  deals."  Then  he  wanted 
"  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers,"  played  instead  of  the 
"  Wedding  March/'  because  he  liked  the  tune,  and  the 
gray  check  trousers  he  insisted  on  buying  for  the  cere- 
mony were  only  suitable  for  the  "five-shilling  ring." 
But  I  could  have  put  up  with  all  these  aberrations  of 
conduct  if  the  Major  had  not  developed  a  heavy  sen- 
tentiousness  that  he  unloosed  whenever  chaff  or  con- 
gratulation afforded  him  an  opening.  We  were  spared 
none  of  the  good  old  tags  about  "  taking  up  a  man's 
responsibilities,"  "  life  incomplete  without  a  wife," 
"the  joy  of  one's  own  hearth,"  and  "the  selfishness 
of  bachelors."  We  all  groaned  under  the  weight  of 
Griffiths'  platitudes  like  toads  under  the  harrow.  As 
Haines  said  one  night  after  the  Major  had  left  the 
club,  "  I  don't  mind  being  lectured  by  a  qualified  pro- 
fessor on  the  subject,  but  I  do  object  to  the  most 
ignorant  fellow  in  the  room  getting  on  his  hind  legs 
and  talking  '  through  his  hat.' ' 

The  unrest  of  the  Major  was  in  sharp  contrast  to  the 
behavior  of  Mrs.  Bellew,  whose  calm  indifference  to 
the  approaching  event  was  almost  indecent,  if  that 
epithet  could  ever  be  used  in  connection  with  the  lady, 
since  her  grand  manner  brings  even  the  vocabulary 
into  subjection.  Mrs.  Bellew  retained, the  most  perfect 
self-control,  as  though  marriage  in  her  family  were  an 
everyday  event,  instead  of  a  rarity  to  stir  the  blood. 
Through  all  the  whirl  of  purchasing  the  trousseau 
and  the  household  linen,  cataloguing  the  presents,  and 
receiving  friends,  she  moved  with  majestic  serenity. 
"  I  believe  in  letting  a  girl  have  her  head  on  an  occa- 
sion like  this,"  was  her  explanation  when  I  called  with 


204  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

the  bridesmaids'  presents,  the  Major  having  been  at 
his  regimental  dinner  the  previous  night,  and,  there- 
fore, hors  de  combat  for  the  ensuing  twenty-four 
hours.  It  was  very  unlike  Mrs.  Bellew  to  surrender 
her  authority  so  completely,  but  Faith  showed  herself 
worthy  of  her  mother's  confidence.  The  bride-elect 
insisted  on  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square;  she  chose 
a  tiara  £100  in  excess  of  the  price  "Joe "  had  meant 
as  the  limit;  her  bridesmaids'  costumes  were  selected 
to  suit  her  complexion  rather  than  theirs,  and  she 
called  me  "  ridiculous  "  when  I  suggested  that  it  was 
customary  for  the  best  man  to  receive  a  slight  memento 
of  the  occasion. 

/,  in  fact,  got  no  consideration.  Dulcie  and  Dolly 
Thurston,  who  were  both  bridesmaids,  sat  in  my  room 
for  hours  at  a  time  when  I  was  trying  to  forget  my 
troubles  in  hard  work,  because  Jermyn  Street  was 
handy  for  the  couturiere  "  creating  "  their  frocks,  and 
they  liked  my  armchairs;  I  became  a  trustee  of  the 
marriage  settlement  on  the  insufficient  ground  that 
I  had  been  called  to  the  Bar ;  I  ran  out  of  silver  thrice 
a  day  with  the  greatest  regularity  settling  small  bills 
for  the  Major.  But  the  climax  was  reached  when  the 
florist's  men  dumped  down  a  forest  of  ferns  and  flow- 
erpots in  my  chambers,  and  ruined  the  carpet  with 
their  boots,  under  the  impression  that  the  reception  was 
to  be  held  there.  Then  I  issued  an  ultimatum  to  all  the 
parties  concerned  that  if  I  wasn't  left  in  peace  till  the 
day  itself  I'd  see  the  whole  show  damned  before  I'd 
be  best  man.  Those  were  the  exact  words  I  uttered, 
the  scene  being  the  Bellews*  drawing-room.  Where- 
upon Lady  Susan  Thurston  expressed  surprise  at 
my  using  such  language  before  the  girls,  Dulcie 
said  "  That's  nothing  for  Gerald,"  Mrs.  Bellew  shud- 


JULY  205 

dered  just  as  though  some  one  had  walked  over  her 
grave  and  given  her  "  goose-flesh,"  Griffiths  looked  at 
Faith  to  see  what  she  thought,  and  thus  get  a  tip  for 
his  future  guidance,  while  old  Bellew  saved  the 
situation  by  remarking  in  a  cheerful  voice,  "Quite 
right,  Hanbury ;  don't  you  be  sat  upon ! " 

My  duties  on  the  great  day  itself  weren't  so  bad  as 
I  had  anticipated.  I  made  certain  of  getting  my  man 
to  the  church  in  time  by  giving  him  lunch  at  one 
o'clock  in  the  Carlton  grill-room,  and  plying  him  full 
of  Dutch  courage,  as  a  result  that  I  had  to  restrain 
his  impatience  to  be  off,  not  he  mine.  I  saw  that  the 
ring  was  safely  stowed  away  in  one  of  my  pockets, 
whence  it  could  be  handed  to  him  at  the  critical 
moment,  and  that  a  check  for  the  amount  of  my  dis- 
bursements was  also  in  my  possession.  I  prevented 
the  Major  taking  a  hat  three  sizes  too  small  for  him, 
and  an  umbrella,  made  in  the  Year  One,  from  the 
cloakroom,  and  stopped  him  telling  the  taxicab  to 
drive  him  "  Home."  Finally,  I  steered  him  safely 
through  the  varied  charms  of  the  bridesmaids  waiting 
in  the  porch  of  St.  George's,  and  landed  him  at  the 
altar  rails  at  2.  p.  M.  sharp.  Once  there  he  was  safe, 
and  I  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  his  whispered  inquiry, 
"When  will  the  starting-gate  lift?"  and  gave  my 
attention  to  the  assembling  congregation. 

True  to  the  prevailing  custom,  the  Bellews  had 
asked  everybody  they  had  ever  met  in  a  'bus  in  order 
to  secure  as  many  presents  as  possible,  taking  the 
added  precaution  of  sending  a  list  of  the  invited  guests 
for  notice  in  the  Morning  Post,  so  that  the  world 
might  read  next  day  how  the  Earl  and  Countess  of 
Henley  and  Lady  Lucy  Goring  were  amongst  their 
acquaintances,  without  at  the  same  time  becoming 


206  TOO   MANY  WOMEN 

aware  that  the  aristocrats  did  not  grace  the  ceremony 
with  their  presence,  and  added  insult  to  injury  'by 
giving  a  bonbonniere  of  cut  glass  and  electro-plate, 
price  i os.  6d.  at  the  stores,  as  the  incriminating  label 
on  the  back  revealed. 

Faith  made  a  handsome  bride.  Not  even  Griffiths' 
best  man  could  use  the  same  epithet  of  him,  but  he 
played  his  part  with  credit,  making  the  sole  slip  of 
trying  to  force  the  ring  on  to  the  bride's  thumb,  till 
the  officiating  clergyman  intervened  before  the  victim 
fainted.  In  the  vestry  I  kissed,  not  only  the  bride, 
but  the  chief  bridesmaid,  and  was  proceeding  to  make 
the  grand  tour  of  the  whole  lot,  when  the  utmost  con- 
sternation was  caused  by  the  discovery  that  the  bride- 
groom had  signed  his  name  in  the  space  reserved  for 
Mr.  Bellew,  so  that  technically  he  was  his  wife's 
father,  within  the  prohibited  degrees  of  the  Church, 
and  the  marriage  void.  However,  the  Courts  were 
spared  the  decision  of  a  nice  point  of  statute  and  canon 
law,  and  the  papers  "a  Society  Sensation"  in  their 
"late"  editions,  by  Griffiths  correcting  his  mistake 
with  a  resolution  worthy  of  a  better  cause,  and  sweep- 
ing his  bride  toward  the  aisle  before  the  organ  had 
started  upon  Lohengrin. 

The  reception  at  the  Bellews'  temporary  abode  bore 
the  features  inseparable  from  such  functions — a  surg- 
ing throng  round  the  bride  as  she  greeted  her  friends, 
cut  the  cake,  and  went  away  in  a  dress  of  gray  foulard, 
her  hat  of  French  straw  trimmed  with  humming  birds 
and  lilac ;  the  private  detective  keeping  watch  over  the 
presents,  and  mistaken  for  a  distinguished  diplomat 
so  long  as  he  kept  his  boots  out  of  sight ;  the  presents 
themselves — the  baker's  dozen  of  fish  slices  and  forks, 
the  biscuit  boxes  and  butter  dishes  without  end,  the 


JULY  207 

volumes  of  their  qwn  works  by  unrea'd  and  unreadable 
authors;  the  dressing-case,  "the  gift  of  the  bride's 
mother  to  the  bridegroom  " ;  the  necklace  and  tiara 
combined  from  the  bridegroom  to  the  bride ;  the  mass 
of  grotesque  and  useless  objects,  from  menu  holders 
shaped  like  owls,  to  enough  sets  of  sleeve  links  to 
stock  a  jeweler's  shop; — the  ill-disguised  hostility  be- 
tween the  circles  of  Montagu  and  Capulet,  the  brides- 
maids acting  as  lodestones  for  the  few  bachelors  rash 
enough  to  appear,  the  champagne  and  the  ices,  and  the 
curious,  throng  of  the  neighborhood  lining  the  red 
carpet  on  the  pavement  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  fes- 
tivities within,  and  cheer  the  bridal  pair  as  they  drove 
away  for  the  "  Continong,"  via  the  Lord  Warden 
Hotel,  Dover. 

At  the  end  of  it  all  I  found  myself  back  in  my  rooms 
with  an  infernal  headache,  and  the  polish  trodden  off 
a  brand  new  pair  of  patent  leather  boots.  Such  is 
life! 

:•;  ••!  :••  i*  i» 

Ever  since  Griffiths  took  up  the  white  man's  burden 
— a  wife — I  have  been  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  mental 
depression,  accompanied  by  the  physical  phenomenon 
of  a  sinking  sensation  under  the  waistcoat.  When  a 
band  of  friends  is  reduced  by  even  a  single  one  of  its 
number,  the  survivors  begin  to  wonder  how  soon  their 
turn  will  come  to  depart.  George's  romantic  esca- 
pades seem  less  entertaining,  Haines'  wit  less  pun- 
gent, my  bachelor  rooms  less  comfortable.  I  have 
even  caught  myself  wondering  what  the  Major  and 
Faith  were  talking  about  at  a  given  moment,  and 
whether  I  shouldn't,  in  reality,  be  'happier  with  fewer 
impulses  to  gratify,  and  more  occasions  for  self-sacri- 
fice— always  supposing  that  the  right  person  reaped 


208  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

the  benefit  of  my  reformed  character.  But  it  is  the 
irony  of  fate  that  when  I  do  wish  to  lavish  my  store 
of  affection  on  a  particular  object,  that  object  displays 
no  eagerness  to  receive  it.  Miss  Audrey  Maitland 
doesn't  think  me  interesting,  or  amusing,  or  a  good 
dancer,  or,  in  fact,  any  of  the  hundred  and  one  things 
I  am  reputed  to  excel  in,  and  on  account  of  which  I 
am  so  inundated  with  invitations  that  my  right  hand 
becomes  palsied  replying  to  them.  And  yet  I  would 
sooner  stand  well  in  Audrey  Maitland's  opinion  than 
in  any  other  woman's.  It  is  against  all  my  principles 
to  confess  as  much,  but  it  is  the  solemn  truth. 

Now  Cynthia  Cochrane  does  care  for  me.  She  may 
not  understand  me,  but  she  appreciates  my  stories, 
and  is  ready  with  quick  sympathy  when  her  feminine 
intuition  tells  her  I  have  eaten  too  many  oysters,  or 
had  the  check,  given  to  me  by  a  tall  stranger  in  the 
bar  of  the  "  Criterion,"  returned  marked  "  No  Account. 
Apply  to  Drawer."  And  it  was  with  this  craving  for 
sympathy  uppermost  that  I  determined  to  spend  an 
evening  behind  the  scenes  of  the  Alcazar  Theater,  and 
see  Cynthia  make  her  debut  in  the  leading  part  of 
Steward's  enormously  successful  musical  comedy,  The 
Bird  in  the  Bush. 

To  watch  the  finished  product  from  the  stalls  is  one 
thing ;  to  stand  behind  and  see  the  same  piece  built  up, 
like  a  Chinese  puzzle,  from  chaos  and  incoherence, 
with  the  aid  of  call  boys,  limelight  men,  scene  shifters, 
and  the  respective  members  of  the  cast  hopping  on 
from  the  right  wing  to  dovetail  a  few  minutes  into  the 
picture  on  the  stage,  and  then  whisk  off  on  the  left,  is 
quite  another.  An  electric  bell  rings  in  the  dressing- 
rooms  reserved  for  the  ladies  of  the  chorus,  and 
straightway  the  narrow  passages  of  the  theater  are 


JULY  209 

flooded  with  a  torrent  of  beauty  surging  toward  the 
stage  entrances.  There  they  stand  gossiping  in  sub- 
dued tones  under  the  keen  gaze  of  the  stage  manager 
and  his  deputy,  until  the  delivery  of  their  cue  by  the 
performer  of  the  moment  releases  them  in  a  hurricane 
of  fluttering  skirts  and  waving  locks  to  the  song  and 
dance  which  depends  on  their  efforts  to  tickle  the  fancy 
of  the  public  and  swell  the  box  office  receipts.  That 
brief  part  played,  back  they  rush  again  to  resume  the 
occupations  temporarily  abandoned,  the  needlework, 
the  glasses  of  stout,  the  paper  novels,  and  the  gossip 
of  the  day. 

The  "  Alcazar,"  as  I  saw  it  on  my  visit,  appealed  to 
me  as  a  place  of  mystery.  The  dim  remoteness  of  the 
"  flies,"  in  which  could  be  discerned  the  figures  of  men 
moving  far  aloft,  amidst  a  network  of  wires  and 
beams,  the  lights  continually  changing  in  color  and 
intensity  in  obedience  to  the  dial  of  the  controlling 
electrician,  the  distant  murmur  of  the  stage  and 
orchestra,  seeming  like  an  echo  from  another  world, 
so  little  relation  had  it  to  the  life  behind  the  scenes — 
all  these  sights  and  sounds  filled  me  with  an  amaze- 
ment which  even  the  very  material  presences  of  Mason 
and  Drummond,  out  of  the  cast  of  the  "  Frivolity  "  for 
a  brief  season,  could  not  dispel.  Of  Cynthia  I  only 
caught  a  glimpse  as  she  went  on  in  front  for  the  first 
time  to  speak  the  opening  lines  of  her  part.  "I've 
just  met  such  a  nice  boy,  I  don't  think.  He  wanted 
to  marry  me;  but  when  he  told  me  his  income  was 
three  thousand  a  year,  I  said  to  him,  '  It  may  be  love ; 
it's  not  business  ' " — wink  at  the  gallery,  and  fall  into 
a  chair  with  a  hollow  laugh  expressive  of  disillusion- 
ment. From  the  applause  Cynthia  got  as  she  went 
through  this  business,  the  audience  evidently  wanted 


210  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

to  see  more  of  her,  which  Drummond  assured  me  they 
would  do  as  soon  as  she  changed  into  her  next 
costume. 

To  commence  the  evening's  experience,  Mason  took 
me  into  his  private  room  for  cigars  and  cocktails, 
and  when  he  was  called  away  he  left  me  in  charge  of 
Drummond  to  do  the  rounds.  I  saw  the  art  of 
"  make-up  "  directed  to  change  the  chief  comedian,  a 
boyish-looking  person  on  the  right  side  of  thirty,  into 
an  irritable  fossil  of  sixty,  who  wheezed  out  drolleries 
from  under  a  thick  layer  of  grease  paint  and  rouge, 
and  a  bold  "  transformation  "  with  side  whiskers.  I 
passed  the  time  of  day  with  the  "first  walking  gen- 
tleman," somewhat  exhausted  from  an  encore,  and 
engaged  in  speculating  whether  he  could  put  in  a 
hand  at  poker  before  his  next  call.  He  sat  in  disarray 
on  a  large  wicker  property  basket  forming  the  chief 
article  of  furniture  in  a  room  singularly  unattractive, 
with  its  white-washed  walls  and  gas  jet  flaring  in  a 
sort  of  iron  cage.  Perspiration  had  plowed  deep 
channels  in  the  brick-red  complexion  that  the  lime- 
light demands  in  order  to  give  the  effect  of  natural 
coloring  across  the  footlights,  and  had  imparted  a  woe- 
begone appearance  to  him,  which  so  aroused  misplaced 
sympathy  on  my  part  that,  after  a  whispered  aside  to 
Drummond,  I  sent  for  a  bottle  of  the  theater  cham- 
pagne, and  summoning  willing  colleagues  from  next 
door,  we  drank  to  the  success  of  the  Bird  for  at  least 
another  year. 

"  It's  a  thirsty  life  and  a  short  one,"  said  Drum- 
mond, as  we  made  our  way  to  the  wings  for  Cynthia's 
song.  "Old  Omar's  bust  ought  to  be  placed  over 
every  stage  door,  since  we  most  of  us  practice  his 
philosophy. 


JULY  %11 

" '  Drink !  for  you  know  not  whence  you  came,  nor  why ; 
Drink  1  for  you  know  not  why  you  go,  nor  where.' " 

"  That  explains  what  is  called  *  the  glamour  of  the 
stage/"  I  replied,  wedging  myself  into  comparative 
comfort  against  the  "  slips."  "  We  are  all  so  desper- 
ately anxious  to  be  on  nodding  terms  with  the  devil, 
that  we  are  ready  to  be  cut  by  our  own  circle  in  order 
to  develop  the  acquaintance." 

Cynthia's  song — "That's  how  Cleopatra  got  the 
Needle" — went  with  a  roar  from  start  to  finish.  Its 
point  lay  in  the  play  made  upon  the  word  needle, 
which  in  the  first  verse  was  the  familiar  monument  on 
the  Thames  Embankment,  in  the  second  was  the  word 
in  its  ordinary  meaning  as  an  article  of  sewing,  and 
in  the  last  was  the  term  applied  by  rowing-men  to  the 
acute  physical  discomfort  known  as  "  getting  the 
needle."  It  was  this  last  verse  which  set  the  seal  of 
success  on  the  number,  and  it  ran  as  follows 


"  Cleopatra  nowadays  doesn't  like  romances, 
Calls  Mark  Antony  '  a  bore,'  says  '  she  never  dances,' 
Never  thinks  about  her  hair,  or  talks  of  tulle  and  trimming, 
Spoils  her  voice  for  love  duets  by  shouting '  Votes  for  women ! ' 

(Chorus) 

Cleo-Cleopatra,  you're  a  trial  to  us  all. 

To  get  a  vote  you'll  threaten,  and  you'll  wheedle. 

Though  we  long  for  peace  and  quiet; 

You  insist  on  row  and  riot; 
Oh,  Cleopatra,  you  give  us  the  'needle.'" 


Steward  had  been  fortunate  in  getting  the  song  set 
to  a  tune  which  exactly  suited  the  swing  of  the  lyrics. 
Cynthia's  by-play  and  expressive  emphasis  had  full 
scope  in  the  verses,  and  as  a  consequence  three  encores 
were  insisted  on,  and  it  was  twenty-five  minutes  be- 


fore  she  could  get  "  off,"  and  invite  us  round  to  her 
room  for  a  chat. 

We  gave  Cynthia  sufficient  grace  to  enable  her  to 
effect  the  greater  part  of  her  change  of  toilette,  and 
then  marched  into  her  dressing-room,  to  find  her  free 
from  paint  and  powder,  and  as  fresh  as  usual — her 
freshness  was  one  of  her  stage  assets — with  a  coquet- 
tish toque  on  her  head.  An  old  woman  was  hanging 
up  the  varied  collection  of  garments  in  her  mistress's 
theatrical  wardrobe. 

"  Your  reputation  is  made,  ma  cherie"  was  my 
greeting. 

"Climbed  to  the  top  of  the  tree  at  one  bound," 
echoed  Drummond,  mixing  his  metaphors. 

Cynthia  dimpled. 

"  It  went  nicely,  didn't  it?  " 

I  picked  up  a  stocking  and  began  playing  with  it. 

"  I  thought  the  house  would  have  shouted  itself 
hoarse,"  I  said. 

"  They  were  dears.  I  could  have  hugged  them 
all." 

"  You  can  begin  on  me,  Miss  Cochrane,  if  you  like," 
insinuated  Drummond,  always  anxious  to  draw  him- 
self in  as  a  subject  of  conversation. 

"Those  who  ask  don't  deserve  to  get,  Mr.  Drum- 
mond." 

"  I  haven't  asked,"  I  whispered. 

"  Those  who  don't  ask  don't  want,  Gerald,"  and 
Cynthia  struck  at  me  with  a  hare's-foot  brush,  trans- 
ferring a  patch  of  rouge  from  it  on  to  my  hand.  I 
wiped  the  stain  away  with  the  stocking. 

"  Lawk-a-mussy-me,"  cried  the  old  dresser,  rescuing 
the  article  from  my  grasp,  "you  mustn't  do  that." 
And,  lest  we  might  do  any  further  damage,  she  bun- 


JULY 

died  everything  in  the  nature  of  clothing  into  the 
baskets  and  cupboards,  locked  each  in  turn,  and,  bid- 
ding us  "  good-night,"  went  out. 

A  knock  came  at  the  door. 

"Mason,  ten  to  one,"  said  Drummond.  But  it 
was  the  commissionaire  of  the  theater,  with  a  large 
shower  bouquet  of  roses,  tied  with  a  crimson  satin 
ribbon. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful!"  exclaimed  Cynthia,  almost 
snatching  it  from  the  man's  hands.  "  Was  there  any 
message  with  it,  Sims?" 

"  No,  miss,"  replied  the  other.  "  It's  just  this  mo- 
ment come  by  special  messenger." 

"  Thank  you,  Sims,"  and  Cynthia  gave  him  half  a 
crown.  The  man  saluted,  and  withdrew. 

"  Who  can  it  be  from  ?  "  asked  Cynthia,  looking  to 
see  if  the  ribbon  gave  any  clew  to  the  donor's  identity. 
"  I  told  Jimmy  Berners  never  to  send  another  flower 
except  to  my  funeral,  so  it  isn't  from  him ! " 

"What  about — Mason?"  suggested  Drummond. 
"  He's  always  there,  or  thereabouts." 

"  Of  course,  it's  Mr.  Mason,"  cried  Cynthia.  "  He's 
so  thoughtful." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  it  is  from  Mason?"  I  said, 
with  nonchalance. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  It  must  have  been  sent  by 
Mr.  Mason." 

But  Cynthia  belied  the  assurance  of  her  words,  by 
diving  into  the  heart  of  the  roses,  from  which  she 
proceeded  to  draw  forth  a  visiting  card.  The  girl 
cast  me  a  quick  glance.  Then  she  read  the  card. 

"Why,  it's  from  you,  Gerald!" 

Drummond  looked  at  me  with  envy.  "  That  was  a 
happy  idea  of  yours,  Hanbury." 


TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

It  was — one  of  my  happiest. 

"  We  don't  want  the  '  star '  to  forget  her  old  friends 
now  that  she  has  become  famous,"  I  said,  with  the 
assumption  of  a  lightness  I  didn't  feel.  Sentiment 
was  in  the  air,  and  I  have  the  Englishman's  horror  of 
sentiment.  Cynthia  had  hung  her  head.  When  she 
raised  it  again  there  was  more  than  a  suspicion  of 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

I  turned  to  Drummond,  and  spoke  slowly  and  dis- 
tinctly. 

"  Drummond,  there's  some  one  shouting  for  you  in 
the  passage.  If  you  have  the  slightest  regard  for  me, 
you'll  close  the  door  softly  behind  you." 

The  noises  of  the  theater  were  unaccountably  stilled 
as  I  made  the  remark,  so  much  so  that  the  place  might 
have  been  solely  occupied  by  mice.  It  was  Drum- 
mond who  broke  the  silence  that  prevailed. 

"Hanbury,  my  good  friend,  the  loud  summons 
rings  in  my  ears.  I  will  return  in  ten  minutes,"  and 
he  vanished. 

"There  goes  a  man  of  tact,"  I  said,  and  took  out 
my  cigarette  case. 

"  Gerald,  dear," — Cynthia's  voice  shook  a  little, — 
"  I  never  forget  old  friends.  It's  the  old  friends  who 
forget  me." 

"  Even  with  that  bouquet  there  to  prove  the  con- 
trary," and  I  pointed  to  it  in  her  hand. 

"  It's  not  a  question  of  bouquets.  Don't  smoke  for 
a  minute  or  two,"  as  I  struck  a  match.  "I  want  to 
talk  seriously  to  you." 

I  didn't  see  how  my  cigarette  would  interfere, 
unless  "talking"  was  a  euphemism  for  something 
else,  but  I  obeyed.  I  usually  do  when  "  Cynthia  of 
the  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair  "  commands. 


JULY  215 

"Do  you  care  for  me,  Gerald?"  Cynthia  began, 
with  disconcerting  abruptness. 

"You  know  I  do,  Cynthia,"  and  I  took  her  hand. 

She  withdrew  it. 

"  Really  care  for  me,  I  mean,  Gerald.  We  actresses 
get  so  much  false  devotion,  that  we  suspect  the 
genuineness  of  any  affection.  If  I  thought  you  were 
like  the  rest,  Gerald,  I'd  tear  these  roses  to  pieces," 
and,  letting  the  flowers  fall  to  the  ground,  Cynthia 
pressed  her  hand  over  her  heart  in  the  stress  of  her 
emotion. 

Success,  instead  of  intoxicating  Cynthia,  was  en- 
dowing her  with  a  clearer  insight  than  ever  into  the 
facts  of  life.  More,  she  was  communicating  her  ex- 
citement to  me.  But  I  was  resolved  to  retain  control 
over  myself. 

"  My  dear  little  girl,"  I  said,  "  what  on  earth  makes 
you  talk  like  this  when  you  ought  to  be  in  the  seventh 
heaven  of  delight  at  your  triumph?" 

Cynthia  regained  her  voice  with  difficulty.  She 
was  apparently  on  the  verge  of  a  storm  of  weeping. 
The  artistic  temperament  exacts  a  heavy  toll  from  its 
possessors. 

"  Sometimes,"  she  began,  "  I  think  I  hate  the  stage. 
Oh,  it's  amusing  enough,  and  one's  vanity  is  flattered 
by  the  pretty  frocks,  and  the  nice  things  people  say  to 
one.  But  to  have  a  heart  in  it  all  is  to  be  miserable. 
The  men  in  my  own  walk  of  life  who  care  for  me  I 
wouldn't  touch  with  a  barge-pole;  the  men  I  care  for 
are  in  a  rank  where  marriage  with  an  actress  is  social 
ruin.  Oh,  I  know  that  well  enough.  Everybody 
thinks  I've  got  a  price,  only  the  nice  people  don't  say 
so.  If  it  wasn't  that  I  take  a  certain  pride  in  my  pro- 
fession, and  that  I  thought  you  looked  on  me  in  a 


816  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

different  way  from  the  others,  I'd  drown  myself  to- 
morrow." 

"  Look  here,  Cynthia  dear ! "  And  this  time  when 
I  took  her  hand  she  let  it  remain  in  mine.  "  You  are 
overstrung,  and  tired,  and  don't  know  what  you  are 
saying.  Things  aren't  as  black  as  all  that." 

But  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  knew  that  Cynthia  was 
right,  and  my  doubts  must  have  crept  into  my  voice, 
because  Cynthia,  turning  her  face  to  mine,  said : 

"  Gerald,  I'm  not  a  child,  and  I  know  exactly  what 
I'm  saying.  However  much  I  loved  a  man,  if  I 
couldn't  get  him  on  my  terms,  he  shouldn't  have  me 
on  his.  I  could  have  had  a  flat,  and  a  motor-car,  and 
furs,  and  jewelry  from  one  of  your  sex  after  another. 
But  if  I  descended  into  those  depths  I'd  never  come 
up  again  alive.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Oh,  my  God!"  I  said,  and  stopped.  After  all, 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

Cynthia  smiled  at  me  through  the  tears  which 
welled  up  in  her  clear  eyes,  and  spoke  quite  simply. 

"Gerald,  I  care  for  you." 

I  felt  like  a  drowning  man.  Audrey  Maitland 
would  never  say  she  cared  for  me. 

"  Kiss  me,  Gerald,  dear,"  Cynthia  went  on. 

If  I  had  had  any  strength  left  I  should  have  pro- 
tested, for  I  couldn't  kiss  her  without  putting  my  arm 
around  her  waist,  and  I  couldn't  put  my  arm  around 
her  waist  without  her  laying  her  head  on  my 
shoulder.  .  .  . 

When  Drummond  returned  he  found  Cynthia  dab- 
bing her  eyes  with  a  lace  pocket  handkerchief,  and 
myself  so  upset  as  to  be  unable  to  keep  a  cigarette 
alight.  For  the  life  of  me  I  don't  remember  what  I 
said  to  Cynthia  in  those  few  moments,  or  what  she 


JULY  217 

said  to  me.  When  a  woman  is  sobbing  on  one's 
manly  chest  it  is  apt  to  discompose  one's  thoughts. 
Also,  I  was  absorbed  in  the  discovery  that  Cynthia 
had  ten  distinct  shades  of  color  in  her  hair,  and 
the  most  I  had  met  before  on  any  one  head  had  been 
six. 

"  You  two  been  enjoying  yourselves?  "  asked  Drum- 
mond  flippantly.  Any  man  of  fine  feeling  would 
have  forborne  to  mock  at  what  was  more  tragedy 
than  comedy,  but  it  would  have  been  too  much  to 
expect  the  self-satisfied  Drummond  to  have  any  per- 
ception for  situations  outside  his  own  narrow  range 
of  emotions. 

"  Mason,"  he  went  on,  with"  irritating  cheerfulness, 
"  is  as  merry  as  a  grig  over  your  turn,  Miss  Cochrane ; 
swears  it's  the  best  stroke  of  business  he  has  done  for 
many  a  long  day." 

"Don't  spoil  the  good  impression  you  created  by 
your  tact,"  I  remarked,  as  I  stooped  to  return  Cynthia 
her  bouquet. 

"  Tact  ?  "  said  Drummond  scornfully.  "  You  as 
good  as  took  me  by  the  shoulders  and  turned  me  out." 

"  Well,  it's  a  free  country.    Why  didn't  you  stop  ?  " 

"  What !  and  have  Miss  Cynthia  tell  me  I  wasn't 
wanted!  Humph!"  and  Drummond  snorted. 

I  turned  to  Cynthia.  "He's  a  silly  fellow,  isn't 
he?  NGood-by,  my  dear.  'A  demain!" 

"A  demain"  replied  Cynthia,  with  the  ghost  of  a 
smile. 

"Curse  convention,"  I  muttered  in  the  passage. 
"  If  I  were  worth  my  salt,  I'd  see  the  world  damned 
and  a  good  woman  saved." 

"  Convention,  my  dear  Hanbury,"  said  Drummond, 
with  the  uncanny  aphoristic  wisdom  he  sometimes  dis- 


218  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

plays,  "is  the  Providence  we  invoke  to  save  us  from 
ourselves." 

I  looked  around  at  him  with  surprise. 

"  I  believe  you're  right/'  I  said.  "  The  salvation  of 
a  good  woman  doesn't  depend  on  the  effort  of  a  bad 
man." 


AUGUST 


"  Marriage  is  a  trial  and  an  opportunity — " 

'Hear,  hear!'  said  I.     'A  trial  for  the  husband  and '" 

ANTHONY  HOPE,  "The  Dolly  Dialogues." 


AUGUST 

'Mrs.  Mallow  is  found  out — The  Parable  of  the  Man 
who  did — Romance  and  a  Cricket  Week 

OWNERS  of  grouse  moors  and  yachts  may  say 
what  they  please,  London  in  August  is  an  ex- 
tremely habitable  spot.  There  is  a  spaciousness  about 
the  town  that  is  refreshing  after  the  crowded  pleasures 
of  the  Season.  The  absence  of  one's  friends,  the  evic- 
tion from  one's  club  by  the  hands  and  brushes  of 
painters  and  decorators,  the  pavements  full  of  country 
cousins,  the  streets  barricaded  against  traffic,  are  all 
compensated  for  by  the  added  sense  of  freedom  and 
the  relaxation  of  the  bonds  of  convention,  enabling 
one  to  indulge  in  the  luxuries  of  the  pit  of  a  theater, 
and  the  wearing  of  a  flannel  collar  and  brogues  in 
Piccadilly.  People  with  a  spirit  of  adventure  get  that 
spirit  pampered  during  a  period  of  the  year  when  it  is 
no  longer  fashionable  to  be  seen  about  and  when  one 
is  expected  to  preserve  the  incognito  of  any  acquaint- 
ances, male  or  female,  whom  one.  may  chance  upon 
under  circumstances  which,  in  normal  times,  would 
prove  the  fruitful  parent  of  scandal.  In  other  words, 
one  must  wait  till  recognition  given  implies  recog- 
nition desired,  and  take  a  cut  direct  as  meaning  noth- 
ing more  than  that  as  the  cat's  away  in  Scotland,  the 
mouse  will  play.  For  Mrs.  Grundy  is  absent  at  the 
seaside  during  August,  and  the  proprieties  are  in  cold 
storage. 

Therefore,  I  was  not  surprised  when,  going  to  a 
certain  restaurant  to  reclaim  a  walking-stick  left  on  a 

281 


222 

previous  occasion,  whom  should  I  find  seated  on  a  di- 
van in  the  vestibule  but  Mrs.  Ponting-Mallow,  though, 
to  my  own  knowledge,  the  old  Indian  civilian  to  whom 
she  was  wedded  had  gone  to  Harrogate  for  the  waters 
and  a  fish  diet.  The  expectant  promptitude  with 
which  the  lady  sat  up  as  I  walked  through  the  swing 
doors  from  the  street,  and  the  mingled  disappointment 
and  concern  which  she  displayed  on  seeing  my  face, 
reflected  more  credit  on  her  heart  than  her  head. 
Clearly,  I  was  not  wanted  and  somebody  else  was. 
Barely  had  I  begun  to  murmur  an  excuse  to  justify 
my  immediate  retreat  than  the  "  somebody  else  "  ap- 
peared from  the  grill-room  staircase  in  the  person  of 
— Captain  Rowan.  So  rumor  for  once  had  not  lied, 
like  the  jade  she  is,  and  I  prepared  to  witness  the 
rehearsal  of  a  Palais  Royal  farce. 

At  close  quarters  the  Captain  showed  up  to  little 
advantage.  The  bad  impression  that  the  glimpse  of 
him  at  Lord's  had  given  me  was  strengthened  by  the 
fellow's  ill-bred  familiarity  in  addressing  Mrs.  Mallow 
by  her  Christian  name,  when  his  object — before  a 
third  party — should  have  been  to  conceal  the  intimacy 
of  his  relations  with  the  lady.  Mrs.  Mallow,  how- 
ever, was  too  hopelessly  infatuated  to  notice  any 
shortcomings  on  Captain  Rowan's  part,  and  content 
to  fix  a  worshipping  gaze  on  the  latter,  as  though  he 
had  been  the  Apollo  of  Phidias  instead  of  a  bad  cross 
between  the  Jubilee  Plunger  and  Count  D'Orsay. 

"  I've  been  hunting  for  you  everywhere,  Julia,"  the 
Captain  growled  at  the  lady,  paying  not  the  least 
attention  to  my  presence,  although  Mrs.  Mallow  had 
attempted  an  introduction.  "  Do  you  think  I've  got 
nothing  else  to  do  than  hang  about  all  day  for 
you?" 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  faltered  Mrs.  Mallow,  her  com- 


AUGUST  223 

posure  deserting  her  still  more  at  this  unkind  recep- 
tion. "  My  watch  was  wrong." 

"  Always  some  excuse,"  Rowan  grumbled,  jingling 
the  coins  in  his  trousers  pockets,  and  scowling  at  the 
clock.  "  I  expect  our  table  has  gone  by  this  time." 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  leave  my  things  in  the  cloak- 
room?" the  lady  asked  timidly. 

The  Captain  showed  his  teeth.  "  I'm  hanged  if  I'll 
wait  another  moment  for  you,"  he  said. 

"That's  not  a  very  considerate  way  to  treat  me 
before  Mr.  Hanbury,"  Mrs.  Mallow  retorted,  with  a 
show  of  spirit. 

"  Considerateness  be  blowed!"  replied  the  other. 
"  I'm  going  in  to  lunch,"  and  away  he  stamped,  leav- 
ing the  lady  to  follow  as  best  she  could. 

I  remained  in  the  hall  staring  after  the  pair,  lost 
in  speculation  as  to  the  strangeness  of  a  woman's  affec- 
tions, and  the  nature  of  the  inducements  that  a  savage 
like  the  Captain  offered  to  Mrs.  Mallow  that  she 
should  risk  her  reputation  in  his  company. 

The  world,  as  is  its  way,  had  put  two  and  two 
together  in  the  case  I  was  considering,  and  made  five. 
The  affairs  of  a  pretty  woman  can  never  be  the  con- 
cern of  herself  alone.  With  every  curl  and  dimple  she 
loses  the  right  to  privacy.  Therefore,  it  was  common 
property  that  Ponting-Mallow,  C.I.E.,  had  not 
allowed  marriage  to  alter  his  prenuptial  habits,  but 
that  he  still  clung  to  his  black  tobacco,  his  discourses 
on  the  depreciation  of  the  rupee,  and  his  aversion  to 
dining  out,  as  though  his  young  wife  of  seven-and- 
twenty  had  been  the  wrong  side  of  forty.  He  im- 
agined that  he  had  performed  his  share  of  the  marriage 
partnership  when  he  had  given  the  girl  his  name,  and 
a  fraction  of  his  pension  as  dress  allowance.  Mallow's 
whole  behavior  seemed  bent  on  proving  the  truth  of 


TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

the  French  aphorism,  "  The  bonds  of  matrimony  are 
so  heavy  that  it  takes  two  to  carry  them — sometimes 
three."  Wherefore  Mrs.  Mallow  and  the  Captain  in 
the  restaurant  trying  to  readjust  the  weight,  and 
myself  wondering  at  the  perversity  of  things. 

In  spite  of  my  natural  curiosity,  I  made  no  attempt 
to  follow  up  the  clew  put  into  my  possession  by  that 
afternoon's  meeting.  But  chance  intervened  on  my 
behalf  a  few  days  later,  as  though  Providence  desired 
my  collaboration  in  the  working  out  of  the  whole 
affair. 

The  Old  Welcome  Club,  at  the  Earl's  Court 
Exhibition,  is  a  favorite  haunt  of  mine  on  summer 
nights,  in  which  to  create  those  fancies  that  form, 
when  turned  into  salable  prose,  the  bread  and  butter 
of  the  literary  man.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  some 
ideas  for  a  light  comedy  &  la  Wyndham,  and  the 
purple  vault  of  the  sky,  spangled  with  glittering 
clusters  of  stars,  the  peaceful  lawn  fringed  by  the 
shifting  crowds  of  pleasure -seekers  without,  and  the 
occasional  melody  of  the  band,  afford  a  favorable 
medium  for  my  •imagination's  growth.  Thus  it  was 
that  I  was  seated  in  the  club  enclosure,  my  hat  tilted 
over  my  face,  lost  in  a  fairyland  of  my  own  thoughts, 
when  a  voice  from  the  terrestrial  world  I  had  left 
broke  in  upon  my  musings. 

"We  can  see  here,  without  being  seen,"  exclaimed 
the  speaker — a  woman — close  behind  me,  paying  no 
attention  to  the  quiet  figure  in  front. 

My  senses,  only  half  roused  from  reverie,  failed  to 
identify  the  familiar  accent  till  her  companion  sup- 
plied the  missing  link  of  memory  by  remarking,  "  It 
doesn't  much  matter  where  we  settle  down,  so  long  as 
we  sit  somewhere  precious  soon." 


AUGUST  225 

Why,  it  was  Mrs.  Mallow  and  her  Captain!  I 
prepared  to  play  the  eavesdroppper  with  no  more  com- 
punction than  I  should  have  felt  if  I  had  been  put 
into  a  position  for  overhearing  the  plans  of  revolu- 
tionaries. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  the  old  man  again  ?  "  began 
the  Captain,  striking  a  match  preparatory  to  light- 
ing up. 

I  had  to  strain  my  hearing  to  catch  Mrs.  Mallow's 
almost  whispered  reply. 

"  Yes,  Ponting  is  anxious  to  know  when  I  shall 
join  him,  as  he  doesn't  like  his  present  attendant,  and 
he  thinks  I  shall  look  after  him  better.  Why  didn't 
he  marry  a  hospital  nurse?"  A  bitter  laugh  ended 
the  sentence. 

"What  made  you  ever  take  on  the  job?"  Rowan 
asked.  I  had  a  shrewd  suspicion  he  wished  to  steer 
the  conversation  off  the  rocks  of  self.  If  so,  he  was 
disappointed. 

"  I  suppose  I  was  tired  of  being  at  home,"  the  lady 
replied  wearily,  "  and  took  the  first  chance  of  freedom 
that  offered.  Freedom,  indeed ! "  and  again  there 
came  that  laugh  of  disillusionment.  "  I  didn't  real- 
ize," she  went  on,  "  the  greatness  of  my  mistake  till 
I  met  you,  Stuart." 

Here,  so  I  judged,  Mrs.  Mallow  attempted  an  affec- 
tionate clasp  of  her  companion's  hand.  The  endear- 
ment was  lost  on  Rowan. 

"Look  here,  Julia,"  he  said,  with  blunt  directness 
that  showed  he  had  collected  his  mental  forces  for  a 
crisis;  "we've  been  playing  this  boy  and  girl  non- 
sense long  enough." 

"  Stuart,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  gasped  Mrs.  Mallow 
under  the  shock  of  this  cold  douche. 


226  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

"What  I  say.  We  can't  go  on  as  we  have  been 
any  longer.  I'm  not  prepared  to  stand  the  racket  of 
the  Courts,  even  if  you  are." 

"The  Courts?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  well  enough  that  we've  practically 
spent  the  last  six  weeks  in  each  other's  company.  It's 
time  to  ring  off." 

"  Surely,  Stuart,"  and  the  lady's  voice  was  tremu- 
lous with  suppressed  emotion,  "you  can't  expect  me 
to  go  back  to  Ponting  when  you  know  how  I  feel 
toward  him!  Ask  me  to  do  anything  but  that!  I 
can't  act  a  lie  to  my  husband." 

"One  lie  more  or  less  doesn't  matter,"  said  the 
Captain,  his  annoyance  increasing  at  the  resistance  he 
was  encountering.  "Anyhow,  you  can't  stop  with 
me." 

"You're  very  unkind,  Stuart,"  and  Mrs.  Mallow 
began  to  sob.  "  I  t-trusted  you,  and  now  you  are 
g-going  to  1-leave  me." 

That's  where  women  so  often  make  the  mistake 
that  costs  them  everything.  They  trust  the  wrong 
man.  But  if  a  fellow's  tie  is  all  right  he  may  be  the 
biggest  blackguard  under  the  sun  for  all  the  fair  sex 
cares,  in  the  same  way  that  a  girl  with  a  "  strawberry 
and  cream  "  complexion  is  always  presumed  by  her 
partners  to  be  an  angel. 

"  My  dear  Julia,"  exclaimed  Rowan  angrily,  "  don't 
make  an  infernal  noise  like  that!  Facts  are  facts. 
You're  not  going  to  be  such  a  fool  as  to  leave  your 
husband,  and  I'm  not  going  to  be  such  a  fool  as  to 
help  you ! " 

"I've  d-deceived  him  once,"  whimpered  little  Mrs. 
Mallow,  oblivious  of  her  surroundings,  as  she  was 
overwhelmed  by  the  torrent  of  her  misery.  "  I  shall 


AUGUST  227 

be  d-deceiving  him  the  rest  of  my  life  if  I  r-return 
to  him." 

In  the  crises  of  life  women  are  remorseless  logicians. 
They  brush  aside  the  arguments  of  casuistry,  to  pierce 
to  the  heart  of  the  issue.  I  had  it  in  my  mind  to 
admire  the  skill  with  which  the  lady  cross-examined 
herself.  The  Captain,  however,  regarded  the  matter 
very  differently.  Called  upon  to  pay  the  price  of  an 
intrigue  of  which  he  was  already  tired,  he  found  him- 
self confronted  by  a  display  of  emotion  which  he  did 
not  share,  and  a  situation  which  his  sole  object  was 
to  escape  from  with  all  speed.  Characteristically,  he 
took  the  roughest  way  about  it. 

"  If  you  can't  control  yourself,"  growled  the  Cap- 
tain, "  I  shall  leave  you  to  yourself.  As  for  thinking 
you  can't  go  back  to  that  husband  of  yours,  that's 
all  tommy-rot.  You'll  find  lots  of  other  fellows  to 
play  about  with,  and  you'll  not  be  the  only  woman 
by  a  long  chalk  who  has  kicked  over  the  traces  at  one 
period  of  her  married  life,  and  then  gone  straight  in 
double  harness  afterward.  You  thought  Ponting- 
Mallow  good  enough  to  marry;  you've  got  to  think 
him  good  enough  to  live  with." 

If  it  had  been  a  man  Rowan  had  been  talking  to, 
he  would  have  been  lying  on  his  back  after  that  speech 
with  two  black  eyes  and  a  damaged  nose.  But  the 
frank  brutality  of  his  words  seemed  to  act  like  a 
cautery  on  poor  Mrs.  Mallow's  bleeding  affections,  for 
after  a  moment's  silence  she  checked  the  flow  of  her 
tears,  sniffled  several  times  as  she  regained  control  of 
her  feelings,  and  finally  rose  to  her  feet  with  the 
quavering  remark: 

"  If  it  makes  you  angry,  Stuart,  I'll  try  not  to  be 
a  fool,  but  don't  leave  me  here  alone !  " 


TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

Having  silenced  the  opposition  to  his  satisfaction, 
the  Captain  was  all  honey  and  treacle  again. 

"That's  right,  little  woman,"  he  said.  "I  knew 
you'd  be  sensible." 

As  I  screwed  round  my  head  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  departing  pair,  I  saw  Rowan  pass  his  arm  through 
the  lady's,  and  escort  her  out  of  view. 

I  mentioned  the  matter  to  George  the  next  day, 
when  I  met  him  in  Bond  Street  wearing  a  straw  hat 
with  an  I.  Z.  ribbon,  and  just  off  to  the  cricket  week  at 
Henley  Park,  for  which  Lady  Lucy  Goring's  im- 
portunity had  procured  him  an  invitation.  I  hadn't 
forgotten  it  was  he  who  had  first  put  me  on  the  scent 
of  the  intrigue. 

"  If  that  bounder  Rowan,"  said  George,  "  thinks  he 
can  drop  Mrs.  Mallow  like  a  hot  coal  as  soon  as  he 
has  burned  his  fingers,  he's  making  the  mistake  of  his 
life.  She  seems  a  pliant  little  thing,  but  she's  as 
tough  as  they  make  'em.  If  he  wants  a  letter  to  his 
colonel,  he's  going  about  the  right  way  to  get  it. 
And  between  you  and  me  and  the  doorpost,  Han- 
bury,  the  fellow  will  deserve  all  he  gets." 

"What's  up?"  I  asked.  "Do  you  know  any- 
thing?" 

"  I  met  a  messmate  of  Rowan's  the  other  day,  and 
he  told  me  they'd  done  all  they  could  to  clear  him 
out  of  the  Service.  But  he  has  the  hide  of  a  rhi- 
noceros, and  after  they'd  ragged  his  quarters  for  three 
months  on  end  to  show  him  he  wasn't  wanted,  and  he 
still  turned  up  smiling,  they  gave  it  up  as  a  bad  job. 
Roman's  already  broken  up  one  happy  home  at  Simla, 
and  he's  qualifying  for  a  *  bust  up '  in  another  estab- 
lishment besides  the  Mallows'." 

"  Any  good  dropping  a  hint  as  to  what  we  know, 
George?" 


AUGUST  229 

"  Don't  you  worry,  *  young- fellow-me-lad ' !    Trust 
a  woman  and  a  Jew  to  manage  their  own  affairs ! " 
So  I  left  it  at  that. 

Hang  Society!  What  has  it  ever  done  for  me 
except  exhaust  my  balance  at  the  bank,  and  raise  my 
tailor's  bill  to  a  height  at  which  I  can  never  hope  to 
settle  it,  unless  I  were  to  discover  a  gold  mine  under 
the  pavement  of  Jermyn  Street,  or  inherit  a  block  of 
flats  in  the  most  eligible  quarter  of  the  town  from  a 
charitable — and  fictitious — aunt.  Society  is  an  assem- 
blage of  people  with  more  money  than  brains,  and 
more  leisure  than  either,  drawn  together  for  the  pur- 
poses of  mutual  amusement.  When  the  pleasures 
Society  indulges  in  cease  to  attract  him,  why  should 
a  man  remain  in  the  charmed  circle  instead  of  seeking 
happiness  outside  it?  That's  the  way  I  feel,  and  its 
source  is  Cynthia  Cochrane.  On  that  night  at  the 
"Alcazar"  the  barrier  between  us  was  broken  down, 
and  Cynthia's  letters  to  me  since  have  taken  on  a 
warmth  of  tone  that  makes  coolness  on  my  part  diffi- 
cult, if  not  impossible.  Forced  to  spend  the  first  half 
of  August  in  town  through  pressure  of  work  arising 
out  of  a  wish  to  start  my  holidays  with  no  commis- 
sions unfinished,  I  have  had  ample  opportunity  for 
considering  the  question  of  Cynthia  in  all  its  aspects. 
I  have  wandered  in  the  parks  on  hot  windless  nights, 
my  forehead  bared  to  the  glories  of  the  summer  sky ; 
I  have  sat  in  my  window  overlooking  Jermyn  Street, 
a  pipe  between  my  teeth,  heedless  of  the  flight  of  time, 
and  ever  have  I  revolved  the  problem  of  my  relations 
to  the  actress. 

Why  is  marriage  with  an  actress  looked  upon  by 
one's  womenkind  as  an  unpardonable  offense,  for 
which  no  penance  of  bell,  book  and  candle,  can  atone  2 


230  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

I  once  thought  it  was  jealousy  which  actuated  the 
hostility,  jealousy  against  a  rival  who  employed 
weapons  of  direct  glances,  unabashed  coquetry,  and 
feminine  unscrupulousness,  which  the  more  civilized 
of  the  sex  looked  upon  in  the  same  light  as  the 
Powers  of  Europe  do  upon  poisoned  bullets  and 
picric  acid  bombs.  But  I  don't  think  so  now.  The 
average  woman,  I  believe,  regards  the  profession  of 
acting  as  in  some  vague  way  outraging  the  sacredness 
with  which  her  sex  is  vested  in  the  eyes  of  men,  tear- 
ing away  a  veil  which  should  remain  inviolate.  By 
conniving  at  this  sacrilege  the  actress  is  a  traitress  to 
her  sex's  self-respect.  This  point  of  view  is  never 
defined,  it  rarely  finds  expression,  but  the  conviction 
lies  at  the  root  of  the  attitude  which  is  adopted  to- 
ward the  stage  by  nine  out  of  ten  women.  And  it  is 
that  factor  which  determines  the  equivocal  position  in 
which  I  stand  toward  Cynthia.  That — and  the  ex- 
perience of  Hugh  Mercer,  which  I  will  chronicle  here 
under  the  title  of 

THE  PARABLE  OF  THE  MAN  WHO  DID 

Hugh  Mercer  was  at  a  time  of  life  when  he  was  free 
from  the  impulses  of  youth,  and  not  yet  subject  to 
the  vacillations  of  age.  He  had  a  comfortable  income, 
a  nice  little  place  in  the  best  part  of  Surrey,  and  he 
was  an  object  of  interest  to  a  wide  circle  in  town  and 
out.  He  could  have  aspired  to  the  hand  of  a  baron's 
daughter,  a  baronet's  sister,  or  the  relict  of  a  wealthy 
stockbroker,  without  undue  ambition  being  gratified 
by  the  alliance.  In  fact  he  was  a  "  catch,"  and  spoilt 
accordingly.  But  as  fate  willed  it,  what  should  he  do 
one  Eastertide  at  Brighton  but  get  introduced  to  Miss 


AUGUST  231 

Delia  Foster,  who  was  "  resting  "  between  her  theatri- 
cal engagements!  She  was  just  such  another  as 
Cynthia,  with  instincts  of  domesticity  which  had  not 
been  eradicated  by  four  years  in  legitimate  drama, 
self-possessed  without  being  bold,  and  a  general 
aspect  of  what  the  Society  papers  describe  as  "being 
in  great  good  looks."  Mercer  was  in  a  dangerous 
frame  of  mind.  He  had  nothing  to  say  to  the  average 
debutante  of  commerce,  he  hated  Mrs.  Grundy  and 
all  her  tribe  like  poison,  and  he  had  lost  all  patience 
with  the  conventional  and  stereotyped  outlook  of  the 
dowagers  who  asked  him  to  lunch  in  the  hope  that  he 
would  propose  to  their  daughters  afterward. 

Delia  Foster  gave  Hugh  Mercer  exactly  what  he 
wanted  in  the  way  of  companionship  and  repartee, 
making  him  feel  that  at  last  he  had  found  unconven- 
tionality  with  refinement,  wit  with  propriety,  and  that 
marriage  might  begin  romance,  instead  of  end  it. 
Without  running  after  Mercer,  Delia  Foster  let  him 
see  that  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  he  was  "  the  only 
pebble  on  the  beach."  A  surprisingly  handsome  girl, 
she  wore  clothes  as  they  were  meant  to  be  worn,  and 
didn't  put  on  a  ball  dress  as  though  it  were  a  peignoir. 
She  had  a  figure  which  really  was  a  figure,  and  her 
waist  was  not  like  a  proposition  of  Euclid's  "two 
straight  lines  which,  being  infinitely  produced,  will 
never  meet."  The  stage  had  given  her  humanity 
without  taking  away  her  womanhood,  grace  without 
depriving  her  of  virtue.  She  was  as  pretty  as  seven, 
and  as  fascinating  as  ten. 

Mercer's  whole  education  had  been  in  the  direction 
that  his  instincts,  as  distinct  from  his  impulses,  were 
to  be  obeyed.  In  one  short  week  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  marry  Delia,  confident  that  his  wife  could 


TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

go  where  "  Miss  Foster  "  couldn't,  and  that  his  friends 
would  see  in  her  the  same  charms  that  he  did.  So  he 
got  a  special  license,  took  the  manager  of  his  hotel 
as  witness,  sent  a  wire  to  his  old  mother  after  the 
ceremony, — "Am  bringing  home  a  charming  bride 
from  the  stage  for  your  blessing," — and  went  on  a 
honeymoon  of  three  days  to  see  Delia's  old  company 
in  The  Silver  King  at  the  Theater  Royal,  Glasgow. 
When  they  came  back  to  Eaton  Place,  old  Mrs.  Mer- 
cer had  barely  recovered  from  the  hysterics  into  which 
Hugh's  telegram  had  sent  her,  and  she  was  quite  un- 
able to  receive  her  daughter-in-law.  Thereupon  Mer- 
cer installed  his  bride  at  a  smart  hotel,  and  proceeded 
to  break  the  good  news  to  his  friends. 

But  for  the  bearer  of  glad  tidings  he  received  a 
chilling  reception.  The  benedict  cannot  expect  the 
same  consideration  as  the  bachelor,  even  should  he 
be  married  to  one  of  the  most  popular  girls  in  his  own 
set.  Until  the  inequality  of  the  sexes  is  remedied,  and 
men  outnumber  women,  mothers  must  reserve  the 
hospitality  of  their  houses  for  those  who  can  help  to 
relieve  the  female  congestion  at  home.  But  when  a 
man  adds  insult  to  injury  by  marrying  an  actress,  he 
is  indeed  outside  the  pale,  and,  as  he  cannot  be  chas- 
tised direct,  he  is  punished  through  his  wife.  And  so 
Hugh  Mercer  found.  If  he  called  alone  he  was 
treated  as  a  silly  young  man  who  ought  to  have  known 
better.  When  Delia  accompanied  him  people  became 
unaccountably  shortsighted.  Invitations  sent  out  in 
the  name  of  "  Mr.  &  Mrs.  Hugh  Mercer "  for  a 
dinner  party  were  one  and  all  refused,  "  with  many 
regrets  owing  to  a  previous  engagement."  Folks  were 
quite  ready  to  accept  Hugh  "on  his  own,"  but  they 
showed  no  inclination  to  extend  a  like  toleration  to 


AUGUST  233 

his  wife.  His  mother  did  express  a  wish  to  see  Hugh's 
bride,  but  Delia  was  so  nervous  that  she  spilled  her  tea 
during  the  interview,  and  confirmed  the  old  lady's 
worst  suspicions  about  "The  Profession."  Delia 
looked  all  right,  and  talked  all  right,  with  a  great  deal 
more  sense  than  her  censors  would  have  shown,  but 
she  had  been  on  the  Stage,  and  that  was  enough. 

Exasperated  by  his  failure  to  get  Delia  taken  up, 
Hugh  Mercer  shook  the  dust  of  London  from  his  feet 
and  retired  to  his  country  home,  where  he  spared  no 
pains  to  create  a  good  impression  round  the  country- 
side. Always  ready  to  be  amused,  people  accepted  as 
much  hospitality  as  he  cared  to  offer,  and  criticised 
the  hostess  behind  his  back.  The  fact  was  that  Delia's 
reversion  from  the  standard,  type  was  unmistakable. 
She  couldn't  have  looked  like  an  ordinary  woman  had 
she  tried  for  a  month,  and  the  woman  out  of  the 
common  is  never  forgiven  by  her  sisters  unless  she 
marries  into  the  peerage,  or  is  born  there.  She  was 
clever,  without  having  the  cleverness  to  conceal  the 
fact.  Had  she  been  wiser,  she  would  have  cut  off 
three-quarters  of  her  lovely  hair,  and  dyed  the  rest 
black,  let  out  her  waist  three  inches,  worn  unbecoming 
dresses,  and  aspired  to  no  wider  knowledge  than  the 
best  method  of  cleaning  cretonnes.  Then  she  would 
have  turned  every  woman  on  her  husband's  visiting 
list  from  a  bitter  rival  into  a  stanch  friend,  anxious 
to  show  the  new  Mrs.  Mercer  that  they  didn't  think 
any  the  worse  of  her  because  of  her  unfortunate  ante- 
cedents. Women  may  tolerate  the  presence  in  their 
own  sphere,  by  right  of  inheritance,  of  one  who  out- 
shines them,  but  they  will  never  endure  the  importa- 
tion of  such  a  "  creature  "  from  the  lower  stratum  of 
society.  In  trying  to  graft  his  wife  on  to  his  family 


234.  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

tree,  Hugh  Mercer  was  attempting  an  impossible  task. 
He  was  merely  running  his  head  against  a  brick  wall, 
and  not  doing  the  wall  any  damage.  After  a  few 
months  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  went  back  to 
his  club,  and  his  men  friends,  who  liked  Mrs.  Hugh 
because  she  was  amusing,  and  didn't  mind  their  smok- 
ing in  the  drawing-room. 

So  far  Delia  had  acquiesced  in  her  husband's  at- 
tempt to  rehabilitate  her  socially,  since,  being  genu- 
inely fond  of  him,  she  was  desirous  of  conciliating  his 
friends,  with  the  object  of  giving  him  pleasure.  But 
when  she  found  that  no  amount  of  deference  and 
flattery  could  placate  the  hostility  aroused  by  her 
uncommon  beauty  and  independence  of  mind,  Delia 
began  to  get  restive.  Upon  her  marriage  she  had,  at 
Hugh's  request,  dropped  her  former  acquaintances, 
much  to  her  own  regret,  because  she  was  a  companion- 
able person.  But  when  no  substitutes  were  provided 
to  fill  the  vacancies  so  created  in  her  affections,  she 
announced  one  day  that  she  intended  resuming  rela- 
tions with  Phyllis,  and  Maud,  and  Otto,  and  Julian. 
Naturally,  Hugh  didn't  like  the  idea,  and,  naturally, 
being  a  man,  he  said  so,  and  plunged  headlong  into 
the  first  serious  quarrel  of  his  married  life,  which  Delia 
ended  by  marching  straight  out  of  the  house — they 
were  installed  in  Eaton  Place  by  this  time,  Mrs. 
Mercer,  senior,  having  decamped  abroad  for  good. 

Having  tasted  again  the  savor  of  the  old  environ- 
ment, Delia  found  hef  new  surroundings  insupport- 
able. She  couldn't  think  what  Hugh  saw  in  the 
"  snuffy  "  women  of  his  set  to  make  him  tolerate  the 
rudeness  they  meted  out  to  his  own  wife,  and  the 
breach  between  the  couple,  once  opened,  rapidly  and  in- 
evitably widened.  The  time,  which  Delia  had  found 


AUGUST 


235 


hung  heavy  on  her  hands  during  her  imprisonment  in  a 
mode  of  living  foreign  to  her  temperament,  and  only 
endured  for  the  sake  of  the  man  she  had  loved,  re- 
sumed its  swift  and  enthralling  flight  amidst  the  asso- 
ciations of  her  stage  days.  Hugh  refused  to  meet  any 
of  the  actors  and  actresses  with  whom  Delia  consorted, 
and  thus  deprived  himself  of  any  power  to  supervise 
her  acquaintances.  Before  long  Delia  was  offered  an 
engagement  which  she  was  prompt  to  accept, — Hugh's 
remonstrances  having  long  ceased  to  carry  any  weight, 
— and  she  was  irretrievably  drawn  back  into  that  pro- 
fession from  which  Hugh,  in  an  unfortunate  moment 
for  both  of  them,  had  snatched  her.  Smarting  under 
a  sense  of  injustice,  Hugh  received  the  assurances  of 
his  women  friends  that  it  was  all  Delia's  fault  as  so 
much  gospel  truth.  He  was  persuaded  to  bide  his 
time,  and  then  set  the  law  in  motion  to  regain  the  free- 
dom which  he  should  have  lost  only  to  a  woman  who 
was  as  dowdy  as  she  was  dull. 

To  this  day  Hugh  walks  his  clubs  with  the  aspect 
of  a  man  who  has  drained  the  cup  of  life  to  the  dregs, 
and  found  the  draught  exceeding  bitter.  Over  his 
tombstone  will  be  set  up  this  inscription: 


Here  lies 

HUGH  MERCER, 
The  man  who  Did 

and 
Was  Done 


I  am  still  wondering  why  the  Steins  asked  me  down 
for  the  cricket  week  at  Lowdon  Castle,  and  why  I 


236  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

accepted.  In  the  first  place,  I'm  no  Gilbert  Jessop  at 
the  national  game,  and  if  I  can  stay  in  two  overs,  get 
one  run  past  point,  "snick"  another  through  the 
slips  and  hook  a  half-volley  to  leg,  I've  earned  the 
generous  applause  of  the  spectators,  and  a  long  drink 
with  straws  in  it.  In  the  second  place,  I  know  the 
Steins  well  enough  to  cut  them.  Hermann  Stein  is 
termed  euphemistically  "  a  master  of  high  finance," 
but,  as  Archie  Haines  says,  "  A  master  of  high  finance 
usually  plays  it  very  low  down,"  and  if  Stein  got  his 
deserts  for  certain  business  transactions  he  would 
probably  be  His  Majesty's  guest  for  several  years.  As 
Society  realizes  that  if  it  insisted  on  title-deeds  to  its 
esteem  from  every  aspirant  for  its  favors,  it  would 
shrink  to  dimensions  which  a  single  drawing-room 
could  accommodate,  a  wise  tolerance  is  shown  toward 
the  past  of  those  who,  like  Stein,  can  feed  the  hungry 
aristocrat  and  rent  his  ancestral  acres.  Therefore,  I 
thought  of  the  millions  behind  my  would-be  hosts, 
and  their  anxiety  to  squander  them  in  style,  and  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  I  might  go  further  and  fare 
worse.  To  refuse  the  proffered  hand  of  friendship  is 
churlish — and,  if  that  hand  be  full  of  golden  guineas, 
foolish  as  well. 

Every  good  deed  has  its  reward,  and  the  first  person 
I  encountered  on  the  platform  at  Southampton,  where 
the  4O-h.p.  Renault  met  us,  was  Audrey  Maitland. 
Her  delightful  presence  was  explained  on  the  same 
grounds  as  accounted  for  every  other  guest  at  Low- 
don.  She  had  come  with  a  friend  of  a  friend  of  the 
Steins,  assured  that  "It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least 
not  knowing  your  hosts.  Nobody  knows.  But  every 
one  stays  at  Lowdon,  and  you've  done  very  well." 
The  incontrovertible  logic  of  this  had  brought  together 


AUGUST  237 

a  tolerable  house  party,  and  not  on  false  pretenses 
either,  for  if  powdered  footmen  behind  every  chair,  a 
display  of  gold  plate  worthy  of  royalty,  a  menu  as 
long  as  one's  arm  prepared  by  the  ex-chef  of  the  Paris 
Ritz,  motors  galore  and  a  launch  always  under  steam 
be  "doing  you  well,"  we  were  done  well.  If  any 
charge  could  be  brought  against  Stein,  it  was  that  he 
overdid  his  hospitality.  For  all  the  peace  and  quiet 
his  guests  enjoyed,  they  might  have  been  living  in 
Hengler's  Circus,  instead  of  in  the  loveliest  place  on 
the  south  coast.  During  the  cricket  matches  against 
the  Gentlemen  of  Hampshire  and  the  Greenjackets,  a 
band  blared  out  popular  melodies  for  the  edification  of 
the  swarm  of  country  folk  who  graced  the  functions. 
At  night,  if  it  weren't  dancing  in  a  marquee  on  the 
terrace, — the  Castle  battlements  outlined  with  fairy 
lamps,  and  the  trees  hung  with  lanterns, — there  was  a 
variety  entertainment  by  performers  from  town,  or  a 
display  of  fireworks  from  a  raft  anchored  off  the 
grounds — during  which,  by  the  by,  great  enthusiasm 
was  created  by  a  set  piece  representing  the  host  and 
hostess,  in  which  the  portion  forming  the  mimic  Mr. 
Stein's  nose  ignited  before  the  rest,  and  presented  a 
glowing  design  of  a  striking  natural  feature. 

The  chief  obstacle  to  everybody's  enjoyment  was  the 
Steins  themselves.  In  the  fine  feudal  palace,  over- 
looking Southampton  Water,  with  its  ivy-clad  walls 
twelve  feet  thick,  its  moat,  its  banqueting-hall  black 
with  age,  its  atmosphere  of  stately  tradition,  the  Steins 
were  as  much  at  home  as  slugs  in  a  gold  cup.  They 
couldn't  have  chosen  a  setting  less  calculated  to 
enhance  their  social  worth.  Tlhe  Misses  Stein,  true 
Roses  of  Sharon,  with  bold  black  eyes,  and  figures 
that  it  was  a  positive  cruelty  to  imprison  within  the 


238  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

narrow  confines  of  a  fashionable  frock,  were  continu- 
ally changing  from  one  garment,  fearfully  and  won- 
derfully made,  into  another.  Mrs.  Stein,  bewildered 
by  the  unfamiliarity  of  her  surroundings,  was  far  too 
busy  getting  into  bodice  after  bodice  at  her  daughters' 
bidding,  to  shed  luster  on  the  social  position  of  her 
masterful  lord  and  master.  And  if  there  was  one 
person  less  objectionable  than  old  Stein — with  his 
habitual  inquiry,  just  as  though  he  were  the  butler, 
whether  he  could  do  anything  for  one,  and  to  which 
no  person  had  the  courage  to  suggest  that  he  might 
sink  himself  in  his  own  launch  to  the  general  satisfac- 
tion— it  was  his  truly  Semitic  son  and  heir.  I  took 
a  dislike  to  that  young  hopeful  the  moment  I  set  eyes 
on  him.  and  he  did  not  lessen  it  by  paying  odious 
court  to  Audrey  Maitland,  of  all  people. 

It  is  surely  carrying  a  sense  of  obligation  too  far  to 
return  the  hospitality  of  the  father  by  smiling  on  the 
son,  and  yet  I  couldn't  find  any  other  reason  to 
explain  why,  if  Miss  Maitland  did  not  exactly  let 
Jacob,  junior,  monopolize  her,  she  went  very  near  do- 
ing so.  I  had  a  serious  bone  to  pick  with  the  fellow 
over  it.  At  a  critical  period  of  our  match  with  the 
Greenjackets  I  went  in  to  try  to  stop  the  rot  in  the 
Lowdon  Castle  team,  caused  by  the  bowling  of  a  lanky 
subaltern  from  the  Rifle  Brigade  depot,  who  had  been 
slinging  down  fast  balls  with  such  effect  that  six  of 
our  wickets  had  fallen  for  75  runs,  a  feeble  reply  to 
the  1 80  knocked  up  by  our  opponents.  I  was  leaving 
the  pavilion,  weighted  with  a  sense  of  responsibility, 
when  I  happened  to  see  the  Jew  boy  keeping  Audrey 
company  under  the  trees,  and  actually  making  her 
laugh.  I  walked  to  the  wickets  "seeing  red,"  dug 
a  hole  in  the  batting-crease  deep  enough  for  Stein's 


AUGUST  239 

grave,  and  smote  at  the  first  ball  sent  down  in  a  blind 
fury  inspired  by  the  thought  that  I  was  aiming  a 
mortal  blow  at  his  curly  head.  The  ball  missed  the 
stumps  by  a  hand's  breadth,  but  I  overdid  my  stroke 
to  such  an  extent  that  the  bat  continued  its  wild  sweep 
until  it  scattered  the  stumps  in  all  directions.  "  Seven 
wickets  for  75,  last  player  o,"  was  the  cheerful  an- 
nouncement that  greeted  me  on  my  return.  I  was  in 
no  mood  for  Miss  Maitland's  crocodile  sympathy. 

"  You  were  so  interested  in  Stein  and  his  funny 
stories,"  I  sputtered,  in  my  rage  and  shame,  "  that  you 
couldn't  have  seen  any  of  the  play." 

Before  she  could  turn  aside  the  just  rebuke,  I  had 
passed  on  to  the  pavilion,  and  the  stiffest  drink  I  could 
mix. 

There  is  no  surer  way  of  getting  snubbed  than  by 
offering  advice  to  a  woman  on  her  choice  of  friends. 
Such  is  the  perversity  of  the  sex  that  forbidden  fruit 
becomes  the  most  desirable  article  of  diet.  I  can't 
carry  the  analogy  of  fruit  into  the  case  of  Stein,  since 
the  term  applied  to  him  sounds  ridiculous.  He  was 
either  prickly  pear  or  a  monkey-nut.  Fortunately, 
however,  before  I  took  the  law  into  my  own  hands, 
and  had  recourse  to  actual  violence,  Stein  himself  re- 
leased me  from  the  horrible  position  of  spectator  to 
his  infatuation — a  spectator  powerless  to  intervene, 
lest  I  should  incur  the  charge  of  interference. 

About  halfway  through  the  ball  that  took  place  on 
the  night  of  our  victory  over  the  Hampshire  Gentle- 
men, I  was  standing  by  the  garden  side  of  the 
marquee,  smoking  a  cigarette,  with  a  recklessness  of 
manner  consequent  on  having  cut  most  of  my  part- 
ners, when  Miss  Maitland  walked  rapidly  round  the 
corner  of  the  tent  upon  me,  and  asked  me  to  take  her 


240  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

where  she  could  rest,  as  she  felt  tired.  It  is  a  habit 
of  mine  to  keep  a  weather-eye  open  for  secluded  spots 
in  case  a  need  of  them  should  arise,  so  I  was  not  long 
in  seating  the  lady  at  the  end  of  a  pergola  in  the 
French  garden,  which  forms  one  of  the  beauties  of 
Lowdon — a  spot  where  the  crescent  moon  shone 
through  the  rose-covered  roof,  and  the  summer  scents 
hung  heavy  in  the  air. 

What  was  it  that  comprised  the  charm  radiating 
from  Audrey  Maitland  ?  I  revolved  the  problem  while 
I  sat  back  with  folded  arms  and  watched  my  com- 
panion tapping  on  the  stone  causeway  with  one  dainty 
foot.  Distinction  was  written  plain  in  every  feature, 
in  the  delicate  line  of  her  nose,  in  the  peach-bloom 
of  her  soft  cheeks,  in  her  mouth  curved  like  a  Cupid's 
bow,  in  her  graceful  little  head  set  on  the  white  pillar 
of  her  neck,  and  wreathed  in  an  aureole  of  most  de- 
licious curls.  But  beauty  alone  can  never  hold  my 
devotion,  though  it  may  attract  it.  I  must  find  intel- 
ligence, an  interest  in  things  which  the  ancients  de- 
scribed as  "the  humanities."  Life  is  too  brief  to  be 
wasted  on  trivialities  to  the  exclusion  of  those  sub- 
jects which  have  stirred  the  curiosity,  and  stimulated 
the  thought,  of  successive  generations.  I  prefer  to 
talk  about  the  achievements  of  great  men  of  the  past, 
rather  than  the  doings  of  small  men  of  the  present. 
One  may  be  excused  for  not  knowing  about  Mr.  Pon- 
sonby  de  Tomkyns,  but  to  be  ignorant  of  Francis 
Bacon  is  unpardonable.  I  may  chatter  scandal  in  a 
ballroom  with  my  partner  of  the  moment,  but  if  I 
am  to  share  my  library  it  will  only  be  with  a  wife  who 
cares  as  little  for  gossip,  and  as  much  for  Edmund 
Burke,  as  I  do.  Audrey  Maitland  was  a  woman  after 
my  own  heart.  She  was  sweet-tempered,  yet  shrewd ; 


AUGUST  $41 

clever  without  malice ;  feminine  without  folly ;  neither 
jealous  of  her  own  sex,  nor  suspicious  of  mine ;  broad- 
minded,  tolerant,  and  with  interests  which  never  run 
dry  even  in  the  drought  of  Society,  to  which  a  worldly 
mother  condemned  her  for  nine  months  out  of 
twelve.  This  was  the  considered  judgment  mentally 
delivered  during  the  five  minutes  of  silence  which  fol- 
lowed after  we  had  both  taken  our  places  on  the  old 
oak  seat  in  the  pergola  that  night  in  August. 

"  What  a  horrible  young  man ! "  said  Miss  Maitland 
at  length,  shuddering  in  spite  of  the  warmth  of  the 
incense-laden  atmosphere. 

"  Have  you  only  just  discovered  that  fact  ?  "  I  asked, 
with  a  joy  I  tried  hard  to  conceal. 

"  He  tried  to  kiss  me ! "  the  girl  went  on,  too  ab- 
sorbed in  her  own  feelings  to  notice  mine.  "  Oh,  I 
wish  mother  had  never  made  me  come  down  here.  I 
told  her  the  Steins  were  quite  impossible." 

"  Shall  I  go  and  throw  the  fellow  into  the  moat  ?  " 
I  suggested,  with  the  idea  of  consoling  her. 

"And  have  everybody  talking  about  why  you  did 
it?  No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Hanbury." 

"  I  shouldn't  worry  long  over  the  likes  of  him." 

"  The  thought  which  tortures  me  is  that  I  must  have 
made  him  think  I  was  the  sort  of  girl  he  could  kiss." 
Audrey  Maitland  hung  her  head,  her  cheeks  pink  with 
annoyance. 

"  Did  he  try  to  make  love  to  you  ?  "  I  asked,  em- 
boldened to  do  so  by  the  fact  that  her  anger  against 
young  Stein  was  making  the  girl  more  confidential  to 
me  than  she  had  ever  been  during  the  Season. 

"  He  paid  me  silly  compliments,  but  I  never  thought 
he  could  be  such  a  cad  as  to  take  advantage  of  my 
politeness  to  him  because  he  was  the  son  of  the  house. 


TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

We  were  sitting  out  on  the  terrace  when  he  put  one 

horrid  arm  round  my  waist,  and — and "  But  here 

Audrey  Maitland's  disgust  got  the  better  of  her  can- 
dor, and  hiding  her  fax:e  behind  her  hands  she  broke 
off  abruptly. 

"  The  brute !  "  I  muttered.  "  Now  if  you  had  treated 
him  as  you  have  always  treated  me,  the  thing  could 
never  have  happened." 

Miss  Maitland's  hands  dropped,  and  she  turned  to 
me. 

"How  have  I  always  treated  you,  Mr.  Hanbury?" 
she  asked  in  frank  surprise. 

"Come,"  I  said,  "you  surely  don't  need  to  be  en- 
lightened on  the  fact  that  from  the  moment  when  we 
first  met,  you  have  done  all  you  could  to  show  your 
dislike  for  me.  Think  of  the  Bratons'  ball,  of  Ascot, 
of  Lord's — nothing  but  snubs,  snubs,  snubs." 

As  I  uttered  the  indictment  a  wave  of  such  sorrow 
for  myself  swept  over  me  that  I  nearly  copied  my 
companion's  example  and  buried  my  face  in  my  hands. 

The  girl  took  my  outburst  with  due  seriousness. 

"  I'm  so  very  sorry  you've  taken  it  like  that,  only  I 
thought  from  something  you  said  to  me  in  London 
that  you  wanted  to  make  love  to  me,  and  of  course  I 
couldn't  have  allowed  that." 

"  Of  course  not,"  I  replied  quickly.  "  You  couldn't 
allow  a  man  whose  whole  body  isn't  worth  your  little 
finger  to  have  the  presumption  to  make  love  to  you." 

"I  didn't  mean  that  at  all,"  and  Miss  Maitland 
spoke  in  tones  of  distress.  "  You  twist  what  I  say  so 
that  I  don't  know  really  what  I  do  mean.  Oughtn't 
we  to  be  going  back?  "  and  she  made  as  if  to  rise. 

"What,  and  run  into  the  arms  of  the  Stein  boy 
again?  No  fear.  You  can't  snub  a  fellow  like  him, 


AUGUST  S49 

and  He'll  be  pestering  you  for  forgiveness  and  an- 
other dance." 

My  diplomacy  was  successful,  for  the  girl  sank  back 
again. 

"May  I  call  you  'Audrey'?"  I  began.  "It's  ab- 
surd to  address  each  other  as  '  Miss  Maitland '  and 
'  Mr.  Hanbury '  as  though  we  were  strangers." 

"  I  don't  think  I  ought  to,"  my  companion  replied, 
turning  her  face  away  so  that  I  had  no  clew  as  to  her 
thoughts. 

"  It's  not  a  question  of  what  you  '  ought '  to  do,  but 
what  you  '  want  *  to  do." 

"Ought  I  to  want  it?" 

Audrey  Maitland  might  have  been  laughing,  for  all 
I  knew. 

"  I  don't  presume  to  say,  but  /  do, — Audrey ! "  It 
was  a  bold  stroke,  but  it  proved  successful. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  will  then, — Gerald.  Now  we 
really  must  go  back." 

"  Is  there  any  chance  of  supper  with  you  ?  "  I  ven- 
tured, as  I  guided  her  by  the  longest  route  I  could 
to  the  marquee,  and  the  crowd,  every  detail  of  which 
had  suddenly  become  hateful  after  the  peace  and  inti- 
macy of  the  pergola,  and  its  roses, 

"  You're  in  a  very  '  asking '  mood  to-night,"  smiled 
Audrey  to  me.  "  But  just  for  a  treat  you  may — and  a 
table  by  ourselves." 

I  managed  it  all  right,  and  we  sat  in  our  oriel  till 
lights  shone  faint  and  faces  showed  haggard  as  the 
pale  dawn  brightened  in  the  sky.  We  ranged  over 
every  topic,  surprised  at  the  similarity  of  our  tastes, 
the  community  of  our  interests  and  an  intellectual 
sympathy  which  showed  itself  by  one  uttering  the  un- 
spoken thoughts  of  the  other.  If  I  had  admired  the 


girl  at  a  'distance,  my  admiration  turned  to  a  far 
deeper  feeling  when  I  found  how  little  separated  us, 
and  how  much  united.  If  her  beauty  had  ensnared 
my  physical  nature,  her  wit,  her  sympathy,  her  insight 
led  my  soul  in  chains.  I  went  to  bed  in  an  ecstasy  of 
sentiment,  to  toss  sleeplessly  as  my  imagination  re- 
created her  charms  to  haunt  and  tantalize  me. 

For  the  rest  of  my  visit  to  Lowdon  I  was  an  un- 
satisfactory guest.  When  Audrey  wasn't  with  me — 
she  had  the  cleverness  not  to  reserve  her  company  for 
me  alone — I  was  morose  and  distrait,  so  much  so  that 
I  nearly  ran  the  launch  aground  on  a  sand-bank 
through  watching  the  girl  when  I  was  at  the  helm;  I 
was  barely  civil  to  young  Stein,  although  I  ought  to 
have  been  deeply  grateful  for  his  indiscretion  and  its 
consequences;  I  nearly  had  a  row  with  the  head  gar- 
dener, because  he  found  me  cutting  the  roses  in  the 
French  garden  to  make  into  a  bouquet.  Altogether 
I  was  gloriously  indifferent  to  those  social  amenities 
upon  which  life  in  country  houses  is  established,  and 
my  obliviousness  to  all  except  the  presence  of  Audrey 
was  heightened  by  the  fact  that  we  were  to  be  fellow 
guests  the  following  month  at  Mr.  Thurston's  lodge 
in  the  wilds  of  Rosshire.  This  prospect  led  me  to 
effusively  thank  the  Steins,  when  the  time  of  depar- 
ture came,  with  a  genial  heartiness  which  so  wrought 
upon  the  old  man  that  he  gave  me  the  name  of  his 
broker  and  some  advice  as  to  profitable  investments. 
If  the  terms  of  friendship  can  be  estimated  with  any 
accuracy  in  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  fifteen  per 
cent — that  was  what  old  Stein  promised  me — takes 
some  beating. 


SEPTEMBER 


"  There's  nothing  in  the  world  so  noble  as  a  man  of  sentiment"—' 
SHERIDAN,  "  The  School  for  Scandal,"  Act  IV. 


SEPTEMBER 

Steward  makes  a  Confession  of  Faith — Ben  Machree 
Lodge,  Rosshire,  N.B. — George  Burn's  Escapade  at 
Dieppe 

A~FTER  the  pandemonium  of  Lowdon  and  the  cloy- 
ing richness  of  the  Steins'  'hospitality,  I  was 
glad  to  put  in  a  quiet  fortnight  at  home  with  our  own 
partridges  before  migrating  north  to  catch  Thurston's 
salmon  and  stalk  his  stags.  It  is  rarely  that  I  put  in 
an  appearance  at  all  under  the  ancestral  roof  during 
the  autumn,  so  my  arrival  was  treated  by  my  family  as 
a  windfall,  the  discussion  of  domestic  problems  to  be 
relegated,  accordingly,  to  the  background  for  the  dura- 
tion of  my  visit. 

So  hypnotic  were  the  sounds  and  silences  of  the 
countryside  to  my  urban  soul,  and  so  magical  the 
slumber  into  which  they  lulled  my  senses,  that  it  was 
as  much  as  the  keeper  could  do  to  rouse  me  to  tramp 
through  the  root-fields  and  newly  cut  stubbles  after 
the  little  brown  birds.  For  the  most  part,  I  was  con- 
tent to  drowse  away  the  sunlit  hours  amidst  the  hum 
of  bees,  and  the  soothing  symphonies  of  distant  reap- 
ing machines,  while  Dulcie,  in  the  summeriest  of 
summer  costumes,  forgot  her  shattered  romance  of  the 
season  in  her  efforts  to  perfect  her  service  at  tennis, 
and  take  the  curate's  volleys  backhanded.  Dulcie,  in 
fact,  had  developed  into  a  furious  devotee  of  exercise, 
and  the  spiritual  affairs  of  the  parish  must  have  been 
sadly  neglected,  from  the  way  she  tempted  the  curate 
from  his  duties  to  run  up  and  down  the  base  line  of 

247 


848  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

the  court  for  set  after  set.  When  I  remonstrated  with 
my  sister  for  her  action,  she  merely  exclaimed, — with 
that  fine  disregard  for  the  higher  life  which  her  sex 
can  show  when  it  conflicts  with  feminine  inclinations, 
— "  I'm  sure  Mr.  Sturgis  is  far  better  playing  with  me 
than  visiting  tiresome  old  women  who've  nothing 
really  the  matter  with  them." 

I  was  glad  Dulcie  should  find  pleasure  in  anybody's 
company— even  though  only  a  curate's.  A  round  col- 
lar and  a  black  straw  hat  don't  make  a  man  a  knave 
in  my  eyes,  as  they  most  unquestionably  do  in  my 
father's,  but  then  I  am  not  the  fond  parent  of  an  only 
daughter.  And  I  had  sufficient  faith  in  Dulcie's  affec- 
tion for  her  brother  to  believe  that  she  wouldn't  take 
any  serious  step  without  first  consulting  that  natural 
adviser.  If  a  girl  can't  be  trusted  to  play  tennis  with 
a  man  without  building  up  romance  around  him.  espe- 
cially when  that  man  is  only  the  possessor  of  an 
income  of  £100  a  year,  and  wears  gray  trousers  with 
white  stripes  down  them,  she  isn't  fit  to  be  allowed 
outside  the  walls  of  the  county  asylum.  So  I  told 
my  father  when  he  hinted  his  fears  of  a  clerical  son-in- 
law.  All  the  same,  it  seemed  a  wise  thing  to  bring 
another  Richmond  into  the  field,  and,  running  over 
the  list  of  possibles  and  probables,  I  suddenly  called 
to  mind  Steward,  tied  to  his  pen  and  office,  shocking 
callers  upon  editorial  business  by  the  freedom  of  his 
language,  and  the  limitations  of  his  costume,  conduct- 
ing half  a  dozen  conversations  on  the  telephone  simul- 
taneously, and  contriving  to  keep  a  cool  head  and 
clear  brain  in  defiance  of  the  thermometer  and  his 
manifold  duties.  Steward,  it  is  true,  could  hardly  be 
looked  upon  in  any  sense  as  a  potential  relative,  but 
I  knew  no  one  who  could  supply  so  powerful  a  coun- 


SEPTEMBER  249 

ter-irritant  to  the  poison  of  the  curate's  fascination — 
if  fascination  there  was — by  his  compelling  charm  of 
manner.  Any  person  of  sense  would  prefer  half  an 
hour  of  Steward  to  half  a  year  of  the  Rev.  Sturgis. 
I  consulted  the  powers  that  be,  dispatched  a  perspir- 
ing page  boy  with  a  telegram,  and  brought  the  jour- 
nalist safe  and  sound  to  our  front  door  at  4  P.  M.  on 
Saturday. 

None  of  my  people  had  ever  met  the  man  before — 
or  anybody  like  him,  but  there  is  this  sovereign  fact 
about  my  Fleet  Street  friend,  that  though  a  person  of 
no  perception  may  begin  by  forming  a  poor  opinion  of 
him  on  account  of  his  shaggy  hair,  insignificant  figure, 
and  aberrations  of  dress,  which,  on  the  present  occa- 
sion, took  the  form  of  a  gray  felt  sombrero  and  white 
"  ducks,"  no  one  ever  labors  for  any  length  of  time 
under  that  erroneous  impression.  Steward,  moreover, 
knows  his  own  limitations  to  a  nicety,  and  confines 
himself  to  those  spheres  of  action  in  which  he  can 
shine.  Therefore  he  declined  Dulcie's  invitation  to 
tennis,  and  let  the  Reverend  Sturgis  grovel  in  the 
bushes  in  search  of  lost  balls.  The  exertion  involved 
in  this  task  may  have  reacted  on  the  latter's  temper, 
or  perhaps  he  may  have  discerned  a  rival,  for  he 
adopted  a  patronizing  manner  at  the  tea  table  toward 
his  original-looking  neighbor,  and  the  sarcasm  of  the 
question  he  addressed  to  Steward  was  apparent  to 
every  one. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  often  get  into  the  country  ?  " 

"  Not  as  often  as  I  could  wish,"  replied  Steward. 

"  Ah,  that's  a  pity,"  remarked  Sturgis,  idly  tapping 
his  saucer  with  his  spoon,  and  with  one  eye  on  Dulcie 
to  note  the  effect  on  her.  "One  has  time  really  to 
study  one's  fellow-creatures  here,  and,  with  all  due 


250  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

deference,  that  is  what  you  gentlemen  of  the  Press 
never  seem  to  do." 

The  intonation  given  to  the  words  expressed  infinite 
comprehension,  and  infinite  pity  on  the  part  of  the 
speaker. 

"  Really,"  said  Steward.  "  Do  you  find  humanity  a 
profitable  field  for  your  investigation  ?  " 

"Profitable  indeed,"  exclaimed  the  other,  delighted 
at  the  opportunity  for  delivering  impromptu  the  sub- 
ject matter  for  a  sermon  he  had  in  contemplation.  "  To 
him  who  reverences  the  truth,  and  has  the  power  to 
perceive  it,  nothing  is  common  or  unclean." 

"  My  great  cause  for  complaint  against  the  clergy," 
interrupted  the  journalist,  addressing  nobody  in  par- 
ticular, but  so  emphasizing  his  statement  that  we  all 
paused  in  our  various  acts  of  refreshment  to  listen, 
"is  that  they  can't  even  bless  mankind  without  put- 
ting on  full  vestments  to  pronounce  the  benediction. 
Many  of  us  laymen  " — here  Steward  spoke  directly  to 
the  curate,  who  was  trying  to  shield  himself  behind  his 
teacup, — "  from  our  knowledge  of  life  have  small 
reason  to  receive  the  message  of  a  self-satisfied  Church 
in  a  thankful  spirit,  and  we  decline  to  receive  it  at  all 
unless  it  is  spoken  by  a  man" 

After  which  the  clerical  gentleman  subsided  to  his 
proper  conversational  level,  to  the  huge  delight  of  my 
father,  and  with  the  tacit  approval  of  Dulcie,  whose 
fairness  of  judgment  recognized  the  justice  of  the  re- 
buke. Never  were  the  old  women  of  the  village  so 
well  served  by  their  minister  as  during  the  rest  of 
Steward's  stay  at  the  place. 

No  guest  could  be  easier  to  entertain  than  the  jour- 
nalist, possessed  as  he  is  of  the  resources  of  a  lively 
and  many-sided  intellect,  for  were  it  only  a  walk  round 


SEPTEMBER 

the  stables,  he  would  invest  the  proceedings  with 
interest  by  a  fund  of  information  on  such  a  topic  as 
that  great  sire  of  our  thoroughbred  stock,  Eclipse. 
My  mother  was  charmed  by  her  guest's  solicitude, 
which  never  obtruded,  was  always  present,  and 
Dulcie's  heart  was  completely  won  by  the  sympathy 
and  insight  with  which  he  discoursed  on  the  care  and 
management  of  the  affections  at  a  moment  when  advice 
on  that  subject  was  peculiarly  opportune.  Our  house- 
hold being  one  in  which  ceremony  is  conspicuous  by 
its  absence,  Steward  was  at  liberty  to  follow  his  own 
bent  during  the  two  days  he  spent  in  it.  He  was 
content  to  lie  out  on  the  lawns,  under  the  limes  and 
elms,  feed  the  goldfish  in  the  fountain,  modeled  on 
the  famous  basin  at  Versailles,  smoke  Havana  after 
Havana,  and  steal  from  Time  a  few  uncounted  hours 
of  reverie.  The  flow  of  witty  and  shrewd  speech  he 
was  ready  to  indulge  in  for  our  entertainment  revealed 
to  my  people  the  possibilities  of  the  English  language 
and  the  human  intelligence,  while  Steward,  on  his 
part,  professed  himself  eternally  grateful  to  me  for 
permitting  him  to  see  the  country,  and  existence 
generally,  under  novel  conditions.  But  I  was  more 
than  repaid  for  any  hospitality  I  had  offered  by  my 
friend's  defense  of  the  Artist  and  Bohemian  against 
the  attacks  of  the  Philistine — represented  by  my  father, 
who  stirred  up  the  discussion  on  the  Sunday  night 
over  our  coffee  and  cigars  when  we  were  sitting  under 
the  rising  orb  of  a  very  golden  harvest  moon. 

My  father  had  been  rash  enough — rash,  that  is,  from 
his  own  point  of  view — to  express  a  hope  that  Steward, 
wise  with  the  experience  of  a  lifetime  in  the  ways  of 
literary  Bohemia,  would  dissuade  his  only  son  from 
profitless  excursions  into  that  dry  and  thirsty  land, 


252  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

when  he  had,  in  the  interests  of  his  own  future  as  a 
landed  proprietor,  far  better  confine  his  energies  to 
acquiring  the  taste  for  country  institutions  which  land- 
owning demands.  Out  of  deference  to  his  guest  my 
father  refrained  from  imparting  direct  his  views  on 
journalism  and  authors,  but  the  guest  quickly  divined 
them. 

"Why  shouldn't  a  man,"  said  Steward  at  length, 
"who  has  talent  in  the  direction  you  indicate,  Mr. 
Hanbury, — and  your  son  has  talent, — make  the  best 
use  of  it  ?  Haven't  we  need  for  pens  as  well  as  plow- 
shares?" 

"  Other  men,"  rejoined  my  father,  "  not  so  fortu- 
nately placed  as  Gerald  can  tempt  Providence  in  Fleet 
Street.  He,  at  any  rate,  has  no  need  to  do  so." 

"  Need ! "  echoed  the  other  with  an  inflection  of 
scorn.  "  It's  not  a  question  of  '  need ' ;  it's  a  question 
of  'must/  for  body  and  soul  to  obey  the  mysterious 
force  impelling  them.  Your  son  and  I,  sir,  have 
heard  the  song  of  the  sirens,  with  ears  unstopped  by 
the  wax  of  the  worldly  Ulysses,  and  we  must  'see 
visions  and  dream  dreams,'  appraising  men  and  things 
by  other  standards  than  those  of  accepted  success,  to, 
perhaps,  find  poverty  and  failure  at  the  end  of  all. 
Yet  we  would  prefer  the  fate  of  the  genius  Chatterton 
dying  of  starvation  at  the  age  of  twenty  on  a  pallet 
of  straw  to  that  of  the  monarch  in  his  palace  praised 
by  all  men.  The  stars  have  called  to  us  and  we  must 
hearken." 

"  The  stars  ?  "  asked  my  mother,  who  takes  words 
literally. 

"Literary  ambition,  the  spirit  of  Romance,  Bohe- 
mia," explained  Steward,  with  a  wealth  of  correction. 

A  sigh  escaped  from  Dulcie,  who  was  gazing  at  the 


SEPTEMBER  253 

journalist  with  an  expression  of  concentrated  fascina- 
tion that  spoke  volumes  for  his  magnetic  eloquence. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  are  not  catching  cold,  dear  ? " 
said  my  mother,  who  would  have  similarly  interrupted 
the  recital  of  a  death  sentence  at  the  Old  Bailey,  so 
little  regard  had  she  for  the  solemnities.  Dulcie  gave 
a  protesting  shake  of  her  shoulders,  but  never  took  her 
eyes  off  Steward,  who  had  resumed  his  brief  for  the 
defense. 

"  When  I  was  a  youth  carrying  copy  to  the  printer 
on  a  salary  of  ten  shillings  a  week,  I  wouldn't  have 
sold  a  single  one  of  my  ideals  for  all  the  luxury  you 
could  have  heaped  on  me.  And  every  year  I  cling 
still  more  passionately  to  the  ambitions  and  hopes, 
unsubstantial,  no  doubt,  clustering  within  me.  You 
only  note,  Mr.  Hanbury,  the  outward  differences  be- 
tween myself  and  your  friends,  the  unconventionalities 
of  my  appearance" — my  father's  deprecating  hand 
was  ignored — "  my  irreverence  toward  the  code  of 
life  you  obey,  my  disregard  of  the  accepted  laws  of 
moneymaking.  But  you  have  no  knowledge  of  the 
sources  from  which  I  draw  a  joie  de  vivre,  an  enthu- 
siasm which  makes  your  comfortable  existence  in 
comparison  the  shadow  of  a  shade,  bloodless  and 
empty.  Why,  sitting  in  this  garden,  surrounded  by 
the  dim  forms  of  trees,  and  under  the  vast  canopy  of 
the  heavens,  my  pulses  are  tingling  with  the  sum- 
mons of  the  eternal  spirit  of  youth — the  Andromache 
of  the  ages — bidding  me  rescue  it  from  the  clutches 
of  the  Conventions!  The  Romance  of  the  world  is 
a  prisoner  in  the  grasp  of  the  ideas  you  stand  for. 
Instinctively  you  don't  want  your  son  to  join  me,  and 
the  uncouth  tribe  to  which  I  belong,  in  the  warfare  we 
wage  against  those  ideas.  But  he  will,  sir,  in  spite  of 


254  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

everything  you  can  urge.  He  has  eaten  our  salt,  and 
his  name  is  enrolled  in  our  fellowship." 

My  father's  cigar  glowed  crimson  in  the  darkness 
as  he  pulled  at  it  in  dawning  comprehension  of  the 
faith  Steward  was  enunciating.  But  it  was  my  mother 
who  took  up  the  challenge. 

"We  don't  like  Gerald,"  she  said,  "spending  so 
much  time  writing  articles  in  London,  when  he  ought 
to  be  either  working  at  the  Bar  or  getting  known  to 
our  tenants.  Besides,  ideas  such  as  you  hold  prevent 
any  one  settling  down  to  the  responsibilities  of  life, 
like  marriage." 

"  My  dear  madam,"  deferentially  replied  Steward, 
"  the  responsibilities  of  life  are  not  kept  at  bay  by  the 
possession  of  one  set  of  ideas  rather  than  another. 
The  child  in  each  of  us  grows  old  despite  any  creed 
one  may  possess;  but  while  this  man  only  knows  that 
all  things  decay,  that  man  sees  the  roses  on  the  tomb, 
and  the  life  springing  from  the  dust.  To  your  hus- 
band details  are  the  most  important  thing — the  rota- 
tion of  crops,  the  head  of  game,  the  weekly  investment 
list.  To  me  the  years  are  too  precious  to  be  squan- 
dered on  matters  which  others  will  accomplish  on  my 
behalf  for  a  salary.  In  the  cave  of  Aladdin  I  refuse 
to  concern  myself  with  the  sacks  in  which  the  treasure 
lies  hid.  I  want  the  treasure  itself — and  life  is  the 
most  wonderful  treasure  imaginable !  " 

Steward  threw  up  his  arms  with  a  gesture  of  despair, 
as  though  language  failed  to  describe  what  he  found 
in  life. 

"Life!" 

The  word  came  from  Dulcie  in  a  whisper,  vibrant 
with  emotion.  She  crouched  in  her  chair,  her  figure 
rigid,  her  whole  soul  responding  in  an  ecstasy  that 


SEPTEMBER  255 

was  agony  to  tHe  gospel  preached  to  her  'for  tfie  first 
time.  In  that  moment  to  her  awakening  intelligence 
Steward  was  neither  old  nor  young,  handsome  nor 
plain.  He  was  immortal  youth,  that  incarnate  spirit 
of  nature  whom  the  ancients  called  Pan,  bidding  her 
obey  her  own  instincts  and  not  those  of  other  people, 
and  to  have  done  with  the  anxieties  and  cares  with 
which  civilization  fetters  the  race.  As  if  aware  of  the 
effect  he  was  producing  on  at  least  one  of  his  audience, 
and  anxious  to  bring  the  conversation  down  to  earth 
before  it  soared  beyond  control,  Steward  did  not  take 
up  the  thread  where  he  had  dropped  it. 

"My  belief,"  he  went  on,  "is  purely  personal.  I 
would  never  try  to  inoculate  another  person  with  it; 
and,  besides,  Gerald  has  an  inheritance  to  transmit, 
and  a  name  to  perpetuate.  But  he  won't  make  the 
worst  husband  because  he  has  looked  on  the  glory  of 
the  world  rather  than  its  shadows,  and  because  the 
goddess  of  Romance  has  touched  him  with  the  hem 
of  her  robe.  Whoever  has  sought  beauty  and  found 
it,  him  shall  ye  reckon  happy ! " 

The  voice  of  the  speaker  died  away  like  the  murmur 
of  the  night  wind  among  pines.  We  sat  motionless 
as  the  stone  figures  one  may  chance  on  in  the  neg- 
lected pleasance  of  a  deserted  chateau.  My  father's 
bowed  head  rested  on  his  hands,  my  mother  wore  an 
expression  of  puzzled  awe,  while  Dulcie,  with  wide- 
opened  eyes,  sought  the  illimitable  spaces  of  dream- 
land. As  for  me,  Steward's  inspired  rhapsody  was  a 
thing  of  joy  to  raise  and  purify  me  of  earthly  long- 
ings. I  could  have  sat  for  eons  in  that  garden,  build- 
ing castles  in  the  air  out  of  the  outlines  of  the  trees 
ragged  against  the  disk  of  the  moon.  But  the  hour 
of  ecstasy  passes  like  the  rest,  and  my  mother  broke 


256  TOO    MANY    WOMEN 

up  the  group  from  that  sense  of  disciplinary  solicitude 
which  marks  the  correct  hostess.  The  pressure  of  my 
father's  hand,  as  he  gave  me  a  more  than  usually  cor- 
dial grip  at  parting  outside  our  bedroom  doors,  showed 
me,  however,  that  Steward's  message  had  been  inter- 
preted aright. 

Now  the  question  with  my  people  is,  "  When  will 
that  delightful  Mr.  Steward  come  to  visit  us  again?" 

"  When  the  harvest  moon  sails  again  in  the  sky ! " 
I  make  reply.  One  Bohemian  is  quite  enough  in  the 
family. 

Mr.  Thurston's  lodge  in  Rosshire  stands  in  a  plan- 
tation of  young  spruce  firs  at  the  head  of  a  wild  glen, 
with  a  river  flashing  three  hundred  feet  below.  In 
fine  weather  a  wonderful  panorama  stretches  before 
the  spectator  standing  at  the  lodge  door,  for  straight 
across  the  gorge  rises  Ben  Machree  in  rugged  gran- 
deur, its  broad  outline  broken  into  spurs  and  shoulders 
where  the  rocky  flanks  protrude  through  their  thin 
covering  of  heather.  The  gray  desolation  of  the  great 
"  corrie  "  on  the  face  of  the  mountain  opposite,  within 
which  lies  the  sanctuary  for  the  forest,  the  bright 
streak  of  a  waterfall  on  the  sheer  precipice  forming 
its  right-hand  wall,  the  purple  radiance  of  the  heather- 
clad  slopes  of  low  ground,  the  gleam  of  distant  waters, 
the  light  and  shade  chasing  alternately  across  moun- 
tain and  glen,  the  herds  of  red  deer  to  be  spied  with 
no  more  exertion  than  is  involved  in  focusing  a  stalk- 
ing-glass,  the  golden  eagles  circling  in  search  of  blue 
hares — make  up  a  prospect  to  be  found  nowhere  save 
in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland.  Even  when  the  storms 
hide  Ben  Machree  in  a  winding  sheet  of  vapor,  the 
mist  pours  down  the  valley  like  an  army  of  phantoms, 


SEPTEMBER  257 

and  the  rain  lashes  in  fury  the  windows  of  the  lodge, 
there  is  an  awe  that  is  a  fascination  in  nature  veiling 
her  face  in  a  white  mask,  and  the  uproar  accompany- 
ing the  transformation.  Wealth  can  be  put  to  no 
better  use  than  to  buy  a  man  foothold  in  such  sur- 
roundings as  those  of  Ben  Machree  Lodge. 

Inside,  the  place  is  much  the  same  as  all  its  kind — 
severely  simple  in  its  appointments,  the  walls  lined 
with  match-boarding,  the  carpets  and  curtains  of  Cam- 
eron tartan,  antlers  and  heads  everywhere.  The  chief 
feature  is  the  veranda  running  round  two  sides  of 
the  lodge,  screened  with  glass  from  the  uncertain 
climate  of  the  "north  countree" — the  receptacle  for 
rods,  lines,  cardboard  targets,  and  all  the  varied  tackle 
of  the  chase,  the  chosen  spot  for  the  display  of  the 
salmon,  the  baskets  of  trout,  the  "  bags  "  of  grouse  and 
ptarmigan,  at  the  close  of  each  day's  sport,  the  in- 
formal smoking-room  of  the  men  at  all  hours,  the 
rendezvous  of  the  ladies  after  dinner,  where  they  can 
listen  to  the  recital  of  the  incidents  of  stalking  and  fish- 
ing from  the  principal  performers.  The  regime  is 
Spartan,  no  culinary  refinements  being  possible,  since 
supplies  are  three  days'  distant,  and  any  meat,  save 
mountain-fed  mutton  and  venison,  unprocurable.  For 
drink  there  is  whisky,  and  plenty  of  it.  The  whole 
domestic  economy  of  Ben  Machree  Lodge,  in  fact,  is 
regulated  by,  and  subordinated  to,  the  interests  of 
sport.  Mr.  Thurston  will  not  tolerate  the  intrusion 
of  Mayfair  manners,  and  Park  Lane  pirouettings,  such 
as  are  the  fashion  on  Speyside,  Deeside,  and  other 
Scottish  haunts  of  society.  Lady  Susan  has  to  leave 
her  ball  dresses  and  tiara  in  the  south,  champagne  and 
other  "  kickshaws,"  in  the  language  of  the  host,  are 
strictly  barred,  and  woe  betide  the  guest  who  lags 


258  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

behind  in  the  house  after  9.30  A.  M.,  or  stays  up  when 
the  order  for  "lights  out"  has  been  given  at  n  P.  M. 
He,  or  she,  is- never  given  another  chance  of  shooting 
a  "  royal "  in  Gabrach  Corrie,  or  hooking  a  fresh-run 
grilse  by  the  sunken  rock  in  the  King's  Pool.  So 
long  as  the  light  is  right  for  spying,  two  rifles  have 
to  be  out  day  by  day  with  Donald  and  Hector  on  one 
or  the  other  of  the  beats  of  the  forest,  there  are  rods 
wanted  on  river  and  hill-loch,  and  if  a  gun  can  be 
spared  to  walk  up  grouse  on  the  low  ground,  so  much 
the  better  for  the  larder,  and  the  peace  of  mind  of 
Lady  Susan  and  her  cook.  Catering  in  the  wilderness 
for  a  house  party  of  eight,  ten  servants,  and  a  horde  of 
attendant  ghillies  and  stalkers,  is  not  a  task  to  be 
undertaken  without  the  assistance  of  good  men  and 
true  to  walk  anywhere  from  ten  to  twenty-five  miles 
a  day  and  bring  in  spoils  varying  from  a  stag  of  six- 
teen stone  to  a  jacksnipe. 

With  the  air  blowing  keen  off  the  hills,  the  atmos- 
phere so  clear  that  one  can  make  out  a  raven  perched 
on  a  rock  at  a  mile,  the  towering  majesty  of  Ben 
Machree,  its  lofty  head  crowned  with  a  shifting  cap 
of  fleecy  cloud,  the  impressive  silence  of  the  "  corries  " 
wrapped  in  "the  sleep  that  is  amongst  the  lonely 
hills,"  the  sight  of  the  stalking  pony  picking  its  way 
carefully  up  the  steep  track  to  the  spot  where  it  will 
wait  till  the  faint  echo  of  the  rifle  shall  summon  it  to 
bring  home  the  monarch  of  the  glen,  the  bracing  of 
every  muscle,  and  the  tingling  of  every  nerve,  as  the 
glass  is  turned  on  a  shootable  stag,  and  one  enters  on 
the  test  of  endurance  and  skill  which  may  last  half 
an  hour,  or  half  a  day,  before  one  can  crawl  into 
range  of  the  animal — with  these  sensations  to  put  on 
the  credit  side  of  the  account,  Scotland  indeed  makes 


SEPTEMBER  .259 

one  her  debtor.  I  should  have  had  the  time  of  my 
life  at  the  Thurstons'  even  if  the  Lodge  had  been  full 
of  "  ticket-of-leave  "  men  and  suffragettes.  As  it  was, 
I  found  myself  in  a  party  comprised  of  Massey,  a 
captain  fellow  in  the  H.L.I,  from  Fort  George,  a 
girl  whom  nobody  takes  much  notice  of  in  London 
because  she  is  plain  and  dances  outrageously,  but  who 
was  in  her  element  at  Ben  Machree,  and  caught  more 
fish  than  the  rest  of  the  party  put  together,  and,  above 
all,  Audrey  Maitland,  who,  if  she  had  been  fascinating 
in  the  patchouli-laden  atmosphere  of  the  Steins,  was 
now  ravishing  in  a  tam-o'shanter,  and  a  broad  sash 
of  her  clan  tartan  across  her  evening  frock.  Bonnie 
Mary  of  Argyll  wasn't  in  it  with  Audrey  for  all  that 
makes  for  the  conquest  of  my  sex. 

Love-making,  however,  took  a  back  place  in  the 
twelve  days  of  my  stay  in  Rosshire,  and  had  I  wanted 
to  play  the  Romeo,  I  should  have  found  it  difficult, 
for  a  Highland  lodge  does  not  encourage  tete-a-tetes, 
unless  one  is  indifferent  as  to  who  overhears  that 
speech  signifying  that  another  mortal  has  been 
sentenced  at  Cupid's  court-martial.  Moreover,  the 
will  was  wanting.  To  start  off  less  than  an  hour  after 
breakfast  in  any  weather,  trudge  up  hill  and  down 
dale  behind  a  stalker  who  rivals  the  walking  powers  of 
Miss  Kilmansegg  and  her  golden  leg,  to  crawl  up 
drains,  and  lie  in  peat  hags,  crouch  behind  a  stone  on 
the  mountain  top  in  the  teeth  of  a  howling  gale  for 
two  hours,  and  then  run  a  mile  at  top  speed  because 
the  deer  have  shifted,  sprawl  down  an  exposed  face  an 
inch  at  a  time  in  full  view  of  the  hinds  below,  and,  if 
one  is  in  luck,  get  home  at  7  P.  M.,  after  an  eight-mile 
walk  with  the  pony  only  "bogging"  once — such 
things  are  conducive  to  thoughts  of  bed  rather  than 


260  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

tender  sentiments.  To  complete  the  rout  of  romance, 
Duncan  Cameron  skirled  his  pipes  round  and  round 
the  dinner  table  during  dessert,  this  stimulating  enter- 
tainment being  followed  by  reels  in  the  skinning-room 
of  the  deer  larder,  to  the  light  of  candles  stuck  on  to 
the  beams  from  which  the  deer  were  slung,  and  in  the 
presence  of  an  audience  of  ghillies,  who  followed  suit 
themselves  as  soon  as  the  "gentry"  had  had  their 
fling  and  withdrawn-  to  the  seclusion  of  the  veranda 
and  bridge. 

People  never  do  themselves  justice  in  London, 
where  the  feverish  anxiety  to  have  a  good  time,  and 
be  "in  the  swim"  at  all  costs,  produces  an  effect  of 
insincerity  and  heartlessness.  Lady  Susan,  pouring 
out  coffee  at  breakfast  or  cutting  sandwiches,  was  the 
British  Matron  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,  rather 
than  the  society  grande  dame,  occupied  in  preserv- 
ing social  distinctions  for  her  caste,  and  in  saving  her 
daughter  from  the  attentions  of  ineligibles.  Dolly, 
struggling  to  cast  a  straight  line  with  an  eighteen-foot 
salmon  rod,  was  no  longer  the  Porcelain  Princess  of 
Charles  Street,  Berkeley  Square.  And  Clive  Massey 
became  a  far  more  presentable  figure  in  Harris  tweeds, 
getting  a  right  and  left  at  grouse,  or  stopping  a  black- 
cock at  forty  yards,  than  when  hanging  around  ac- 
tresses. As  for  myself,  the  world  was  well  lost  for 
the  boisterous  health  and  spirits  that  filled  me  from 
the  moment  I  jumped  into  an  icy-cold  bath,  to  the 
time  when,  sixteen  hours  later,  I  thrust  my  tired 
limbs  into  pink  pyjamas. 

The  first  days  of  my  visit  coincided  with  a  heavy 
"  spate,"  so  I  turned  my  attention  to  the  river,  wading 
about  in  the  brown  flood,  a  watchful  ghillie  at  my 
back  ready  to  gaff  my  belt  if  my  feet  slipped  on  the 


SEPTEMBER  261 

uneven  bed,  and  one  of  the  ladies  on  the  bank  to  take 
a  turn  in  whipping  the  most  likely  pools,  and  shout 
advice,  above  the  roaring  of  the  waters,  when  a  grilse 
had  succumbed  to  the  lure  of  the  "  Silver  Doctor," 
and  was  bending  the  "  greenheart "  double  in  wild 
rushes  for  freedom.  As  soon  as  the  river  fell,  the 
H.L.I,  fellow  and  myself  put  in  one  good  spell  after 
ptarmigan  and  grouse  on  the  tops  of  a  range  of  hills 
where,  the  feeding  not  being  so  much  to  the  taste  of 
the  deer  as  that  on  Ben  Machree,  we  did  not  disturb 
the  stalking.  The  three  girls  accompanying  us,  we 
walked  the  seven  miles  in  line,  picking  up  in  the  three 
hours  of  the  journey  grouse,  hares,  and  snipe  till  the 
panniers  of  the  pony  were  as  full  as  an  inspector  of 
the  R.S.P.C.A.  would  have  permitted  before  institut- 
ing a  prosecution.  After  a  stiff  scramble  we  lunched 
on  the  summit,  in  a  wilderness  of  gray  shingle  and 
rocks,  looking  the  while  from  Skye  to  Cromarty. 
Then,  the  party  dividing  into  two,  there  ensued  a  con- 
fused game  of  "  I  spy "  over  the  various  peaks  and 
gullies  of  the  range,  much  banging  at  the  flocks  of 
ptarmigan,  which  walked  at  one's  feet  like  pigeons 
till  roused  to  fly  by  volleys  of  stones,  an  infringement 
by  the  Captain  of  the  Wild  Birds  Protection  Act 
(Scotland)  in  securing  a  peregrine  falcon,  and  a  hulla- 
balloo  after  a  fox,  shot  by  myself,  who,  having  got 
separated  from  the  rest  in  pursuit  of  a  wounded  hare, 
surprised  Reynard  as  he  made  for  his  den  in  a  rocky 
cairn.  We  arrived  home  in  triumph  with  fifteen  brace 
of  ptarmigan,  twelve  brace  of  grouse,  a  couple  of 
snipe,  five  hares,  a  fox  and  a  peregrine,  having  drunk 
all  the  streams  dry  on  our  homeward  way,  the  ladies 
footsore,  the  dogs  limping,  and  a  universal  sensation 
of  having  eaten  nothing  for  twelve  hours,  or  tasted 


262  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

whisky  for  twenty-four.  If  any  other  place  than 
Scotland  can  give  an  equal  meed  of  pleasure  and  pain 
I'd  like  to  know  of  it. 

My  first  day  "  on  the  hill,"  as  the  phrase  goes,  was 
unfortunate.  After  Hector  had  given  me  a  long  crawl 
over  broken  ground,  a  hind,  which  had  been  lying 
unperceived  in  the  shelter  of  a  peat  bog,  suddenly  got 
our  wind  and  gave  the  alarm  to  the  beast  we  were 
stalking.  Later  on  we  sighted  a  nice  stag  lying  in  a 
"  pocket "  on  the  far  side  of  the  ground,  but  as  the 
wind  blew  over  the  top  on  both  sides,  the  only  ap- 
proach was  from  the  "corrie"  below,  where  the 
ground  was  too  bare  to  permit  of  our  remaining  un- 
seen by  the  quarry.  It  was  want  of  tact  that  led 
Hector,  after  our  luckless  day,  to  expatiate  on  the 
grand  heads  he  had  stalked  on  this  selfsame  beat.  I 
did  manage  to  shoot  an  animal  the  next  time  I  went 
out  on  the  lower  ground,  seventeen  stone,  but  a 
"  switch,"  so  I  was  still  without  the  trophy  I  longed 
for  when  it  was  my  turn  again  to  scale  Ben  Machree. 
Of  course  it  was  a  misty  morning  on  the  mountain, 
and,  as  the  chances  of  getting  anything  except  a  chill 
seemed  remote,  I  suggested  to  Audrey  Maitland  that 
she  should  put  on  a  "  sou'-wester "  hat  and  a  water- 
proof skirt  and  join  me.  Lady  Susan  made  some 
demur,  but  Mr.  Thurston  shouted  out,  "  A  good  wet- 
ting hurts  nobody,  and  makes  the  hair  curl,"  and 
drove  the  girl  forth. 

When  we  set  out  things  were  not  so  bad,  but  as  we 
rose  higher  and  higher  up  Ben  Machree,  in  a  silent 
line  of  men  and  ponies,  the  mist  grew  denser,  until 
all  sounds  became  muffled  in  the  oppressive  folds  of 
vapor.  Once  we  heard  the  half  cough,  half  grunt 
of  a  startled  hind,  and  the  clatter  of  the  stones  as  she 


SEPTEMBER  263 

galloped  away  along  a  precipitous  track,  but  for  the 
most  part  we  moved  in  a  dead  world.  At  rare  inter- 
vals a  freshening  gust  of  air  would  roll  away  the  bank 
of  fog  like  a  curtain  to  disclose,  far  away,  glimpses  of 
loch  and  moorland  and  mountain-side  glowing  a  vivid 
green  and  purple  in  the  damp  atmosphere,  and  mur- 
murous with  the  voices  of  the  burns  hurling  them- 
selves down  the  heather  cliffs  on  which  we  stood. 

The  pinnacle  of  Ben  Machree  is  formed  of  a  shat- 
tered pile  of  granite  over  a  hundred  feet  in  height,  its 
base  surrounded  by  huge  boulders,  torn  from  the 
parent  block  in  prehistoric  ages,  and  heaped  in  all 
directions  for  scores  of  yards.  A  long,  natural  stair- 
case of  rock  leads  up  through  the  center  of  the  mass 
to  a  deep  depression  at  the  top,  from  which  it  is  cus- 
tomary to  spy  the  whole  range  of  the  peak,  and 
Gabrach  Corrie  itself,  a  vast  amphitheater  directly 
below  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain,  always  full  of  deer 
for  the  reasons  that  the  grass  is  sweet  and  the  wind, 
sucked  up  through  the  corrie  as  in  a  funnel,  blows 
from  all  quarters  of  the  compass  upon  the  deer  and 
protects  them  effectually  from  danger.  Already  that 
season,  Hector,  so  he  said,  had  abandoned  half  a 
dozen  stalks  there  after  very  heavy  animals,  owing  to 
the  treacherous  nature  of  the  air  currents.  While 
the  pony  was  relieved  of  the  deer  saddle  and  hobbled, 
Audrey,  I,  and  the  ghillie  with  the  rifle,  climbed  to  the 
crest  of  the  rock  to  await  events,  the  stalker  going  off 
to  discover  if  there  was  any  clearer  view  to  be  obtained 
lower  down  the  hill.  For  what  seemed  an  intermi- 
nable time  we  sat  there,  marooned  in  a  sea  of  mist,  cut 
off  from  earth  as  completely  as  though  in  a  balloon 
trying  to  pierce  the  veil  which  hung  before  us  for 
sight  or  sound  of  man  or  beast  or  good  red  earth. 


2641  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

We  had  giveii  up  all  hope  of  a  stalk  when,  with  the 
unexpectedness  of  an  actor  appearing  through  a  trap 
door  on  to  the  stage,  Hector  stood  beside  us. 

"There's  a  gran'  beast  in  yon  corrie,"  he  whis- 
pered. "  I'm  no  saying  he's  not  a  royal,  but,  mon, 
he's  in  a  verra  awkward  poseetion  with  the  puffs 
coming  every  way.  I  spied  him  through  a  chink  in 
the  mist.  It'll  be  clearing  the  noo,  I  think." 

As  he  said  it,  the  wall  of  vapor  broke,  outlines  of 
rock  appeared  on  every  hand,  and  we  saw  the  mist 
swirling  over  the  sides  of  Gabrach  Corrie,  as  though 
from  a  gigantic  punch  bowl  filled  with  the  devil's 
brew.  Far,  far  below  came  into  view  the  little  loch 
at  the  bottom,  and  the  jagged  pinnacles  ribbing  the 
steep  descent.  Sounds  of  life  penetrated  once  more 
to  the  ear,  the  hoarse  croak  of  a  raven,  the  pony  crop- 
ping grass  at  the  foot  of  our  crag,  and  the  wail  of  the 
rising  wind  as  it  commenced  its  sad  symphony  round 
the  bleak  buttresses  of  stone.  I  turned  my  glass  on  to 
the  depths,  and  the  deer  we  had  been  seeking  leaped 
into  being  on  its  powerful  lens,  a  herd  of  hinds  feeding 
along  the  loch  shore,  and  scattered  groups  of  stags, 
their  points  left  to  conjecture,  so  distant  were  they. 
We  lost  no  time  in  descending  from  our  eminence, 
and  consigning  Audrey  to  a  vigil  with  the  pony. 
Hector  took  the  rifle,  and  crept  forward  to  the  edge 
of  the  abyss,  with  myself  in  pursuit.  When  the  pillar 
crest  of  Ben  Machree  was  out  of  sight  above,  the 
stalker  stopped  behind  a  projecting  boulder,  wriggled 
on  to  his  elbow  and  gazed  long  and  earnestly  down 
the  slope,  here  set  at  an  angle  of  fifty  degrees.  When 
it  came  my  turn  to  look  I  seemed  to  be  in  the 
middle  of  all  the  deer  in  the  country,  for  on  that  day 
Gabrach  Corrie  held  at  least  fifty  fine  stags,  and  a 


SEPTEMBER  265 

couple  of  hundred  hinds,  some  lying  in  pockets  and 
holes  on  the  steep  face  opposite,  some  feeding  on  the 
young  grass  for  which  the  "corrie"  was  famous, 
others  walking  to  "  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new." 

"  To  your  right ! "  hissed  Hector,  and,  as  I  fol- 
lowed his  direction,  there  came  into  view  a  magnificent 
stag,  its  three  companions  all  ordinarily  worth  a  shot, 
but  now  completely  eclipsed  by  an  animal  of  eleven 
points,  and  at  least  eighteen  stone.  The  quartet  lay 
about  five  hundred  yards  below  and  to  the  right  on  a 
carpet  of  thick  heather,  interspersed  with  granite  frag- 
ments. To  reach  them  would  involve  crossing  a  dry 
water  course  and  an  exposed  tract  of  rubble  and  grass 
before  the  shelter  of  a  rocky  spur  could  be  attained. 
Even  then  it  was  doubtful,  so  far  as  we  could  make 
out  from  where  we  crouched,  whether  a  shot  could  be 
effected  without  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  sports- 
man being  visible  on  the  sky-line.  But  the  problem 
could  wait,  the  immediate  question  being  how  to  get 
as  far.  For  though  we  might  hope  to  escape  the 
notice  of  the  particular  beasts  we  were  stalking,  the 
"  corrie  "  was  so  full  of  deer  that  it  would  be  strange 
if  we  deceived  them  all. 

But  chance  helped  us.  We  lay  on  the  lip  of  an 
enormous  cup,  of  which  the  side  farthest  from  us  had 
been  bitten  out,  and  at  the  base  of  this  gash  a  pass 
led  down  to  a  wood,  the  top  of  which  was  just  visible. 
Up  this  pass,  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  us,  a  great 
concourse  of  deer  was  ascending,  every  stag  and  hind 
in  the  "  corrie  "  becoming  intent  on  this  proceeding, 
with  heads  raised  from  the  ground,  and  turned  to  the 
newcomers.  In  the  diversion  so  created,  we  threw 
ourselves  on  our  faces,  and  never  raising  a  limb  from 
the  ground,  but  progressing  as  an  animated  pancake 


266  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

might  be  expected  to  do,  we  reached  the  stream  bed, 
took  a  moment's  breathing  space,  and  crossed  the 
danger  zone  an  inch  at  a  time,  until  we  halted  behind 
the  projecting  ridge.  My  hopes  of  a  rest  were  dis- 
appointed, for  Hector  started  forthwith  headforemost 
downhill,  and  as  he  had  the  rifle,  the  glass  and  the 
flask,  I  had  perforce  to  follow.  When  we  did  come  to 
a  standstill,  with  our  heels  high  above  our  heads,  and 
the  contents  of  my  pockets  emptying  themselves 
generously  over  the  heather,  I  lay  with  my  tongue 
out  and  my  brain  swimming,  wondering  whether  my 
insurance  premiums  were  all  paid  up,  and  whom  I 
should  bequeath  my  signet  ring  to — Audrey,  or 
Cynthia.  I  was  roused  to  inspect  the  stags  through 
a  convenient  crack,  where  they  lay  not  120  yards  off, 
my  beast  on  the  extreme  left,  with  its  head  laid  along- 
side its  body,  dozing.  To  wait  in  a  cramped  position, 
tortured  with  needles  and  pins,  a  desire  to  sneeze,  and 
a  burning  thirst,  one's  pipe  pressing  into  one's  side, 
the  rifle  crushing  one's  thigh,  the  blood  rushing  into 
one's  head,  and  grim  expectancy  clutching  at  one's 
heart — to  endure  these  pangs  until  it  should  please 
the  stag  to  get  on  its  legs  and  offer  the  chance  of  a 
shot  to  trembling  fingers  and  blurred  brain,  was  to 
display  qualities  deserving  canonization  on  the  spot. 
I  would  rather  have  gone  back  to  Audrey  and  Dewar's. 
"  Fine  Blend,"  than  have  taken  Quebec  or  shot  the 
"  eleven-pointer."  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  did  none  of 
these  things,  for  when,  after  a  full  hour  and  a  half's 
wait,  the  beast  rose  and  began  to  feed,  I  was  so  ex- 
hausted, and  my  hand  so  unsteady  that  I  sighted  too 
high,  or  too  low,  or  too  much  in  front,  and,  instead  of 
falling  to  the  report,  the  stag  stared  for  a  moment  in 
sheer  surprise  at  the  unwelcome  entree  to  its  dinner, 


SEPTEMBER  267 

before  stampeding  up  the  "  corrie  "  over  its  far  brow, 
together  with  every  animal  in  the  place. 

"  Better  luck  next  time,"  gasped  Hector,  as  we 
toiled  back  to  the  cairn ;  "  but  ye  pulled  off  too  soon. 
It's  no  so  late,  though.  We'll  have  something  the 
day." 

I  put  the  speaker's  cheerfulness  down  to  the  innate 
politeness  of  the  Highlander,  and  accepted  Audrey's 
sympathy  with  gloom,  not  even  lightened  by  her 
account  of  instructing  the  ghillie  in  the  mysteries  of 
"  Cat's  Cradle,"  and  we  proceeded  along  the  ridge  of 
the  mountain  in  the  direction  in  which  the  deer  had 
gone,  spying  some  of  the  hinds  feeding  peacefully  on 
the  flats  below,  but  of  a  stag,  and  particularly  our 
stag,  not  a  trace.  Hector  meanwhile  took  all  the 
precautions  which  a  stalker  loves  to  indulge  in.  He 
threw  up  tufts  of  cotton  grass,  with  which  his  waist- 
coat pocket  was  stuffed,  to  test  the  direction  of  the 
wind,  never  suffered  us  to  turn  a  corner  or  descend 
a  gully  till  he  had  searched  the  foreground  with  his 
glass,  chose  his  path  so  as  to  avoid  loose  stones,  and 
called  a  halt  for  ten  minutes  after  sending  a  ptarmigan 
wheeling  over  the  sky-line.  As  we  approached  the 
end  of  the  center  ridge  Hector  redoubled  his  stealth, 
till  he  disconcerted  Audrey  and  myself  by  throwing 
himself  full  length  on  the  ground.  Our  nerves 
thoroughly  unstrung  by  the  maneuver,  we  followed 
suit.  And  it  was  well  we  did,  for  between  the  blades 
of  mountain  grass,  which  formed  our  temporary 
horizon,  we  saw  the  three  companion  stags  to  the  one 
I  had  missed  walking  along  a  plateau  which  broke  the 
declivity  of  Ben  Machree  some  ninety  yards  below. 
The  sight  was  so  unexpected  that  I  let  them  vanish 
in  the  distance  before  stretching  for  the  rifle.  Putting 


268  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

his  finger  to  his  lips,  Hector  drew  the  Mannlicher 
from  its  canvas  case  and  slipped  it  into  my  hands, 
just  as  there  appeared  before  us  the  stag  we  sought, 
carrying  its  head  and  branching  antlers  proudly,  and 
quickening  its  pace  to  overtake  its  comrades.  My 
head  cleared,  I  raised  the  rifle  softly,  as  it  came  level, 
aimed  at  the  line  of  its  shaggy  neck,  and  shot  it 
through  the  heart.  At  5  p.  M.  exactly  my  foot  was 
on  its  broad  flanks  and  I  drank  "  Blood  on  the  knife," 
Hector  replying  in  the  toast  of  "More  blood."  It 
was  nearly  six  before  the  stag  was  "  gralloched,"  fixed 
on  the  pony,  and  our  faces  turned  toward  the  lodge, 
nine  miles  away. 

Of  that  walk  I  cherish  the  pleasantest  recollec- 
tions, for,  having  got  the  finest  head  so  far  killed  that 
season  on  the  forest,  I  was  tramping  alongside 
Audrey,  helping  her  over  rough  places,  listening  to 
her  gay  chatter,  and  generally  reveling  in  her  prox- 
imity. What  matter,  then,  the  mischances  that  befell 
us,  the  mist  coming  down  again  at  nightfall,  the 
lantern's  refusal  to  throw  a  proper  light  on  the  rough 
track,  the  pony  "bogging"  twice  and  having  to  be 
relieved  of  its  load  and  hauled  out  by  main  force,  my 
disappearance  into  a  deep  heather  hole  with  a  foot  of 
water  at  the  bottom,  Audrey's  mishap  as  she  crossed 
the  river,  slipping  backward  off  a  precipitous  bank  up 
to  her  waist,  and  at  the  end  Lady  Susan's  reprimand 
to  me  for  taking  so  little  care  of  the  girl ! 

"  Hang  the  girl,  he's  got  the  stag ! "  said  Mr. 
Thurston. 

"  He's  got  'em  both,"  added  Massey  when  Miss 
Maitland  and  her  hostess  were  out  of  hearing.  As, 
in  my  soaking  clothes,  I  was  in  no  mood  for  repartee, 
I  let  that  statement  pass.  Anyhow,  wherever  the  lady 


SEPTEMBER  269 

may  find  a  billet,  the  head's  going  over  my  writing 
table. 

•  !••  !•  (••  .• 

When,  on  my  return  south,  George  Burn  wrote  and 
asked  me  to  join  Archie  Haines  and  himself  for  ten 
days  at  Dieppe,  my  first  impulse  was  to  refuse  to  link 
my  fortune  to  any  such  combination  of  high  living 
and  plain  thinking.  But  it  is  a  poor  comradeship 
which  only  shows  itself  in  times  of  calm,  so  I  accepted, 
if  only  to  save  George  and  Archie  from  their  worse 
selves,  since  I  could  afford  to  view  their  masculine 
shortcomings  with  an  aloofness  due  to  my  wandering 
affections  having  become  fixed  at  last.  My  misgiv- 
ings were  revived  with  full  force  upon  George's  ap- 
pearing at  Victoria  Station  in  a  large  check  ulster,  the 
pockets  stuffed  with  French  novels  and  contraband 
tobacco,  on  his  head  a  Homburg  hat  ornamented  with 
a  bunch  of  feathers,  his  luggage  consisting  of  a  dis- 
reputable kit-bag  and  a  "  hold-all,"  and  that  expres- 
sion of  rollicking  bravado  on  his  face  which  the  Briton 
assumes  to  convey  his  anticipatory  enjoyment  of  the 
pleasures  of  "  Gay  Paree."  We  crossed  from  New- 
haven  on  a  sea  so  smooth  that  a  sailor's  life  appeared 
the  most  enviable  of  all,  George  striking  a  note  of 
sincerity  in  his  confession  of  regret  that  he  was  not 
in  the  Navy,  by  saying  that  he  liked  the  "wife  in  every 
port"  idea.  The  Hotel  des  Bains  had  been  recom- 
mended to  Haines  as  possessing  all  the  comforts  of 
home  with  none  of  its  rigors,  so  we  took  up  our  resi- 
dence there  for  the  period  of  our  stay  in  the  French 
watering  place. 

Why  is  it  that  the  mere  fact  of  being  on  the  Con- 
tinent makes  the  average  Englishman  feel  that  he  is 
the  very  devil  of  a  fellow,  up  to  no  end  of  mischief? 


270  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

The  three  of  us  sat  in  the  Casino,  and  laughed  at  the 
fathers  of  families  who  were  taking  a  week-end  away 
from  the  counters  and  desks  where  they  earned  the 
salaries  to  pay  the  rents  of  Balham  and  Tooting,  pre- 
tending that  they  liked  to  strain  absinthe  through  a 
lump  of  sugar,  and  casting  glances  right  and  left  with 
the  intention  of  conveying  to  the  ladies  that  they  were 
regular  Don  Juans.  The  folk  who  had  landed  from 
the  cross-channel  steamer,  typical  middle-class  Britons, 
shy  and  reserved,  were  in  two  hours  transformed, 
under  the  influence  of  the  Gallic  climate,  into  gay 
Lotharios  out  on  the  spree,  ready  to  fling  their  francs 
on  the  "  boule "  tables  and  to  offer  light  refresh- 
ments to  the  butterflies  of  pleasure  who,  in  silks  and 
satins,  had  fluttered  into  the  gilded  saloons  of  the 
Casino.  Wherever  we  went — to  the  cafes  of  the 
Grande  Rue  Henri  IV,  to  the  Castle  on  the  West 
Cliffs,  to  the  forest  of  Arques,  to  the  restaurant  at 
Puys,  we  were  dogged  by  our  fellow-countrymen 
reveling  in  the  new-found  sense  of  freedom  which 
comes  with  exile  from  their  own  convention-ridden 
land.  They  lined  the  morning  promenade  on  La 
Plage,  they  sat  on  the  beach  at  the  bathing  hour, 
when  the  native  beauty  of  Dieppe  took  its  plunge  into 
the  "briny,"  clad  in  rainbow-colored  toilettes,  com- 
plete with  stockings  and  buckled  shoes,  and  with  the 
wearer's  monogram  worked  on  the  right  hip,  and 
they  were  on  the  spot  in  smoking  jackets  and  opera 
hats  when  the  band  commenced  the  evening's  gayety 
sharp  at  nine  by  striking  up  "  Non,  je  ne  marche 
pas." 

After  four  or  five  days,  however,  George  wanted 
something  more  exciting  than  studying  the  genus 
"  tourist." 


SEPTEMBER  £71 

"  I  didn't  come  over  here  to  behave  as  though  I 
was  at  Margate,"  he  announced  at  last.  "  If  you  fel- 
lows like  to  spend  your  time  twiddling  your  thumbs 
on  the  beach  while  a  sweet  thing  in  violet  skips  about 
in  front  trying  to  avoid  wetting  her  feet,  I  don't,  so 
I'm  off  on  my  own  account." 

"  Going  off  on  his  own  account "  didn't  improve 
George  as  a  companion,  but  it  seemed  to  work  won- 
ders on  his  spirits.  We  only  saw  him  at  long  inter- 
vals, when  he  threw  out  dark  hints  about  assignations, 
and  "the  time  of  his  life,"  and  borrowed  loo-franc 
notes  of  us.  We  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  one  night 
on  the  terrace  of  the  Casino  talking  to  a  prepossessing 
female  in  black  picked  out  with  orange  sequins,  but 
it  was  only  a  glimpse,  and  as  George  is  very  English, 
with  linguistic  powers  to  match,  and  his  companion 
looked  very  French,  Haines  and  I  concluded  that  the 
conversation  was  pretty  much  on  the  surface. 

"  Making  an  ass  of  himself  with  some  woman,"  said 
Haines,  and  I  agreed;  but  when  George  began  to 
take  all  his  meals  out,  and  practically  never  showed 
up  for  forty-eight  hours,  our  sense  of  amusement 
changed  to  one  of  annoyance,  since  Haines  and  I  were 
too  much  alike  in  temperament,  and  we  needed  George 
as  a  buffer. 

On  the  sixth  day  of  our  visit  we  two  were  sitting 
outside  our  hotel  after  dejeuner,  basking  in  the  sun, 
when  a  Frenchman  came  up  from  the  Plage.  His 
heavy  mustache  and  "  imperial,"  his  black  cut-away 
coat  and  dark  trousers  made  him  appear  a  painful 
object  in  the  heat,  and  the  excitement  which  caused 
him  to  wave  his  cane  at  sight  of  us  taking  our  ease 
was,  in  our  opinion,  solely  attributable  to  his  suffer- 
ings. To  our  astonishment,  as  he  came  level  with  our 


272  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

chairs  he  stopped  to  scrutinize  us,  rolling  his  eyes 
about  meantime,  and  muttering  "Sacre  bleus,"  and 
other  expletives,  for  his  own  edification  rather  than 
ours. 

"  You  are  ze  Monsieur  Anglais  ? "  he  asked 
abruptly,  in  an  execrable  accent,  looking  from  Haines 
to  myself,  and  back  again  to  see  which  claimed  the 
honor. 

"  Of  course  we're  English,"  said  Haines.  "  Do  we 
look  like  Japs  ?  " 

The  Frenchman's  further  examination  was  not  to 
his  apparent  satisfaction. 

"  You  are  not  ze  Monsieur ! "  he  remarked,  with  a 
shrug,  and  pulling  at  his  imperial  with  a  perplexed 
gesture. 

"  Why  did  you  say  we  were,  then  ? "  demanded 
Haines  aggressively. 

"  Don't  worry  the  fellow  with  your  lingo,"  I  inter- 
posed. "  He  doesn't  understand  a  word  of  it,  and 
he's  got  something  on  his  mind." 

"Ze  Monsieur  avec  le  chapeau,  vere  ees  ee?"  and 
our  strange  visitor  put  his  hand  up  to  the  side  of  his 
head  and  waggled  his  fingers  in  his  endeavor  to  ex- 
press the  bunch  of  feathers  which  distinguished 
George's  hat  from  all  others. 

"  My  goodness !  "  I  shouted  at  Haines.  "  He  means 
George.  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  this." 

"Jove,  you're  right,"  and  Haines  slapped  his  knee 
to  emphasize  the  force  of  his  discovery. 

The  Frenchman  put  the  right  interpretation  on  our 
excitement.  "Le  connaissez-vous ? "  he  demanded. 
"  I  veesh  parler  a  leettle  to  Monsieur." 

I  tried  my  hand  at  diplomacy. 


SEPTEMBER  £73 

"Qu'est  ce  que  vous  voulez  dire  a  Monsieur? 
Peut-etre  pourrons-nous  lui  porter  une  lettre?" 

The  man  waved  his  arms  about  as  though  he  was 
signaling. 

"Non,  non,  non!"  and  his  voice  rose  an  octave 
with  each  word.  "  II  est  mediant,  cet  homme  la.  Ee 
ees  vat  you  call  '  a  devil.'  He  kees  my  vife,  I  kees 
'eem."  And  the  stick  was  flourished  to  the  imminent 
danger  of  our  heads. 

"  Oh,  c,a  ne  fait  rien,"  said  Haines,  using  about  the 
only  French  phrase  he  knew.  In  the  circumstances 
it  was  an  unfortunate  one. 

"Vat  you  say?  You  tink  it  nossing  to  kees  my 
vife?"  shouted  the  outraged  husband,  growing  purple 
in  the  face,  and  advancing  toward  Haines  with  his 
fist  clenched. 

"  Ici ! "  and  I  got  up  to  stop  the  fight  that  seemed 
imminent.  "  Mon  ami  ne  comprend  pas  qu'est  ce 

qu'il  dit Tell  him  you're  damned  sorry,"  I  said 

to  Haines  in  an  aside. 

"  So  I  am,  that  I  haven't  kissed  his  wife.  Tell  him 
that!" 

"  Monsieur  me  demande  exprimer  son  regret  com- 
plet,"  I  explained.  "Understand?  Comprenez?" 

"All  right."  The  Frenchman's  passion  subsided, 
with  Gallic  characteristicness,  as  quickly  as  it  had 
risen.  "  Mais  votne  ami  ?  "  he  went  on  to  ask. 

"II  est  sur  la  mer,"  and  Haines  gesticulated  to- 
ward the  blue  waters  of  the  Channel. 

"  Sur  la  mer  ? "  gasped  our  visitor,  gazing  spell- 
bound at  the  offending  element  for  a  minute  before  he 
could  recover  himself  to  say,  "  'Eem  I  'ave  seen  dans 
le  Casino  hier  au  soir?" 


274:  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

"  C'est  vrais,  old  fellow,"  Haines  continued,  "  il  est 
parti  ce  matin  au  travers  la  Manche  avec  la  blanch- 
isseuse  de  1'hotel — he  has  gone  off  with  the  washer- 
woman, hasn't  he?"  Haines  had  the  effrontery  to 
appeal  for  my  support. 

I  began  to  stammer  a  reluctant  affirmative,  but  I 
might  have  spared  myself  the  falsehood.  Aghast  at 
the  Don  Juan  proclivities  of  "  ze  Engleeshman  "  who 
could  combine  conquests  over  his  wife  and  the 
"  blanchisseuse "  of  the  Hotel  des  Bains,  the  Mossoo 
was  defeated  without  my  unveracious  assistance,  his 
fury  extinguished  in  the  excess  of  his  astonishment. 

"  Quel  jeune  homme ! "  gasped  the  Frenchman,  with 
a  tragic  intensity  in  which  unwilling  admiration  was 
blended.  To  the  heartfelt  relief  of  Haines  and  my- 
self he  made  haste  to  beat  a  retreat  down  the  path, 
finally  vanishing  from  our  sight  on  the  Plage. 

We  still  had  the  elusive  George  on  our  souls,  fear- 
ful lest  a  chance  meeting  between  the  rivals  might 
lead  to  a  melee,  or,  worse  still,  publicity.  No  sooner 
was  the  horizon  clear  of  the  husband  and  his  ash- 
plant  than  we  proceeded  to  make  systematic  search 
for  the  couple  who  were  causing  all  the  trouble,  a 
task  easier  begun  than  carried  to  a  successful  con- 
clusion., since  the  town  of  Dieppe  offers  many  secluded 
spots  for  those  who  think  that  two  is  company  and 
three  the  very  devil.  In  fact,  the  credit  of  ending 
it  all  belonged  to  Haines,  who,  guided  by  some  clair- 
voyant instinct,  insisted  on  tramping  across  three 
hundred  yards  of  shingle  in  the  burning  sun  to  look 
behind  a  groyne  which  ran  from  the  foot  of  the  cliffs 
into  the  sea  at  the  extreme  point  of  the  esplanade. 

"  Whoop,  lass !  tear  'em,  puppy,  tear  'em ! " 

Leaning  over  the  breakwater,  some  four  feet  in 


SEPTEMBER  275 

height,  Haines  gave  tongue  in  a  note  of  triumph  that 
brought  me  up  at  a  trot.  Sure  enough,  there  was 
George,  not  the  slightest  sign  of  embarrassment  at 
our  magical — and  inconvenient — appearance  to  be 
traced  in  his  demeanor,  sitting  by  the  side  of  a  plump 
and  pleasing  person,  not  quite  my  ideal  of  a  feminine 
companion,  but  still  attractive  enough  in  a  piquant, 
foreign  way  to  stir  feelings  of  envy  in  my  manly 
bosom  at  the  scapegrace  George's  situation.  Haines 
evidently  shared  the  same  sentiments. 

"  George,"  he  said,  "  there's  a  raging  husband 
thirsting  for  your  blood.  Let  him  catch  you  with 
Madame,  and  you'll  be  carried  back  to  England  on  a 
stretcher." 

"  And  look  here,"  I  chimed  in.  "  Not  content  with 
throwing  us  over  for  the  whole  of  this  trip,  you  do 
your  best  to  drag  us  into  an  unsavory  scandal  over 
which  Archie  and  I  get  all  the  kicks,  while  you  pocket 
the  halfpence;  and  not  only  halfpence,  by  Jove!" — 
for  a  closer  inspection  showed  me  that  the  lady  was 
a  chemical  blonde  of  considerable  attractions — "  but 
gold  into  the  bargain." 

I  shouldn't  have  said  myself  that,  after  our  mode  of 
address,  any  introduction  was  necessary  to  complete 
the  formalities  of  the  occasion.  But  George  thought 
otherwise. 

"  Messieurs  mes  amis — Madame  Chablis." 

The  introduction  including  us  .both,  Haines  and 
myself  bowed  simultaneously,  like  Tweedledum  and 
Tweedledee.  Madame  Chablis  showed  two  rows  of 
white  teeth  in  a  smile  of  welcome,  which  remained 
fixed  as  George  proceeded  to  explain  about  "  le  mari." 

"Alphonse!"  exclaimed  that  fiery  person's  wife, 
with  a  silvery  laugh.  "  Ah,  c'est  ridicule !  " 


276  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

As  her  ignorance  seemed  bliss,  Haines  and  I 
thought  it  would  be  folly  to  enlighten  her  as  to  her 
spouse's  knowledge  and  estimate  of  the  affair.  Our 
duty  was  to  George,  not  to  a  flighty  Frenchwoman, 
and,  in  pursuance  of  that  duty,  we  literally  dragged 
George  out  of  sight  of  Madame  Chablis's  waving 
handkerchief,  and  out  of  hearing  of  the  cries  of  "  A 
bientot,  mon  cheri,"  with  which  she  pursued  our 
struggling  forms. 

The  seriousness  of  the  situation,  enforced  by  every 
art  of  exaggeration,  having  been  dinned  into  George's 
ears,  he  was  immured  in  his  bedroom  until  the  even- 
ing, and  then  smuggled  by  a  devious  route  to  the 
night  boat.  Jealousy  sharpens  the  wits,  and,  more- 
over, neither  the  constancy  nor  secrecy  of  Madame 
could  be  trusted,  once  she  had  rejoined  her  husband. 
Only  when  we  were  seated  with  our  back  to  the  cabin 
deck,  and  rugs  across  our  knees,  did  we  feel  secure. 

"What  really  happened?"  asked  Haines,  antici- 
pating me  by  the  fifth  of  a  second. 

George  had  the  sense  not  to  fence  with  the  ques- 
tion. He  started  straightaway. 

"  I  didn't  give  you  fellows  the  go-by  until  I'd 
marked  out  my  line  of  advance.  I  spotted  Madame 
first  with  that  husband  of  hers  in  the  Casino,  so  I 
maneuvered  myself  to  the  next  place  at  the  'petits- 
chevaux,'  and  when  she  had  put  down  a  stake  I  did 
likewise,  and  contrived  to  take  her  hand  as  we  raised 
ours  together.  In  case  she  wasn't  one  of  the  '  ready 
brigade/  I  repeated  the  trick,  but  it  was  all  right, 
because,  while  Alphonse  was  talking  to  the  croupier, 
she  gave  me  'the  glad  eye'  and  glanced  at  the  bal- 
cony, on  which  we  both  met  a  moment  later." 

George  paused,  with  the  light  of  battle  in  his  eye. 


SEPTEMBER  2TT 

"  Chablis,"  he  continued,  "  looked  as  yellow  as  his 
name  suggested  when  I  was  brought  up  to  him  five 
minutes  later  as  an  English  'milor/  an  acquaintance 
of  Madame's  in  the  days  of  1'Exposition,  but  I  played 
my  part  to  the  life,  talked  about  '  Madame  la  Com- 
tesse,'  and  hinted  at  favors  to  come  for  the  husband 
of  the  lady  it  had  given  me  such  pleasure  to  meet 
once  more.  As  for  the  luncheon  at  Puys,  which  I 
arranged  &  deux,  I  never  believed  in  the  *  twin  souls ' 
theory  till  that  hour  when  I  found  that  Madame  and  I 
shared  the  same  tastes  in  hors  d'ceuvres  and  savories, 
and  liked  them  long  and  lingering.  After  that  there 
was  no  question  of  '  Parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow.' 
We  had  the  sweets  without  the  sorrow,  the  only  fly 
in  the  blanc  mange — if  I  may  say  so — being  the  ne- 
cessity for  avoiding  Chablis." 

"He  evidently  caught  you  out  once,"  interposed 
Haines,  "  for  he  murmured  something  to  us  about 
your  having  'Keesed  'ees  vife.'  For  the  honor  of 
your  country,  I  trust  you  did  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"True,  O  King,"  retorted  George,  with  a  levity 
that  mocked  the  gravity  of  the  occasion.  "I  did 
overstay  my  welcome  yesterday,  for  Alphonse  found 
me  saying  good-night  on  the  doorstep.  I  had  to  take 
a  flight  of  steps  at  a  bound,  and  do  the  quarter-mile 
inside  fifty  seconds  to  save  the  Frenchy  from  com- 
mitting a  breach  of  the  peace.  Still,  it  was  worth  it." 

George  closed  his  eyes  in  the  ecstasy  of  recollec- 
tion, fit  study  for  a  picture  entitled  "  Warrior,  rest ! 
Thy  warfare  o'er." 

"You've  behaved  simply  disgracefully,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"  Disgracefully,"  echoed  Haines,  producing  a  pencil 
and  pulling  out  his  shirt-cuff.  "  In  case  I'm  in  Dieppe 


278  TOO   MANY  WOMEN 

again,  though,  you  might  give  me  the  lady's  address. 
I  believe  I've  held  the  '  twin  souls '  theory  all  the  time, 
without  knowing  it." 

But  George  had  dropped  off  into  a  peaceful  sleep. 
He  was  exhausted,  and  no  wonder. 

"I'm  very  fond  of  George,"  I  said  to  the  disap- 
pointed Haines,  "but  I'll  never  go  abroad  with  him 
again,  unless  he  is  padlocked  to  his  lawful  wife." 

And  I  won't. 


OCTOBER 


Dans  les  premieres  passions  les  femmes  aiment  I'amant,  et  dans 
les  autres  elles  aiment  I'amour" — LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD. 


OCTOBER 

The  Progress  of  Mrs.  Mallow — The  Return  of  Major 
Griffiths — The  Green-eyed  Monster  in  Jermyn 
Street — A  Crash  in  the  Grecian  Restaurant 

DO  you  know  the  Ponting-Mallows ? "  asked 
Lady  Fullard  of  me,  the  other  day,  when  I  had 
called  to  inquire  whether  Homburg  had  had  the  de- 
sired effect  on  Sir  John's  health. 

"I've  met  him"  I  replied,  with  the  discretion  that 
is  the  better  part  of  valor  in  Lady  Fullard's  drawing- 
room. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  for  the  poor  man,"  said  her  ladyship, 
clinging  obstinately  to  her  secret. 

"  Now,  my  sympathies  are  entirely  with  her ! " 

Lady  Fullard  looked  the  astonishment  she  felt. 

"Then  you  have  seen  Mrs.  Mallow?"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Through  an  opera  glass — at  the  theater,"  I 
hastened  to  correct.  "  But  my  opinion  is  based  on  an 
acquaintance  with  the  husband.  He's  an  impossible 
person." 

Lady  Fullard  bridled, — no  other  word  would  de- 
scribe the  manner  in  which  she  drew  herself  up,  as  if 
to  repel  an  insinuation  shocking  to  decency  and  female 
self-respect. 

"If  a  woman  is  pretty,  Mr.  Hanbury,"  she  said, 
"  there  are  always  men  who  will  condone  any  breach 
of  the  commandments  she  may  commit." 

"  And  members  of  her  own  sex  who  will  convict 

281 


TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

her  upon  merely  hearsay  evidence.  'Woman's  in- 
humanity to  woman/"  I  went  on,  "'makes  count- 
less husbands  mourn.' " 

Lady  Fullard  stared  at  me.  "  The  evidence  against 
Mrs.  Mallow  is  not  hearsay — as  you  call  it.  Mrs. 
Bompas  told  me  that  that  woman  has  run  away  with 
a  soldier." 

Had  I  been  on  the  Bench,  Lady  Fullard's  idea  of 
what  constituted  hearsay  evidence  would  have  given 
occasion  for  a  judicial  joke  and  "  laughter  in  court." 
In  the  circumstances  I  said  nothing,  but  took  my 
leave  as  soon  as  I  conveniently  could.  Lady  Ful- 
lard's drawing-room  is  like  a  lobster-pot — easy  enough 
to  enter,  but  jolly  difficult  to  find  a  way  out  of. 

I  happened  to  be  dining  with  Steward  that  night, 
and,  mentioning  the  matter  in  the  course  of  idle  con- 
versation, he  proceeded  to  evince  more  interest  than 
his  ignorance  of  the  parties,  or  their  social  insignifi- 
cance, warranted. 

"  The  very  thing,"  he  said,  when  I  had  done.  "  You 
can  earn  a  little  honest  money  before  anybody  comes 
back  to  town." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  asked,  as  well  as  a  mouth- 
ful of  salad  permitted.  "  I'm  not  going  to  ferret  out 
the  private  life  of  a  friend  to  gratify  you  and  your 
public." 

"Never  asked  you  to,"  Steward  retorted.  "I'm 
arranging  a  series  of  unconventional  Society  studies, 
dealing  with  the  real  thing,  by  folk  who  know  what 
they  are  talking  about.  Wendover  is  describing  how 
he  shared  his  coronet  with  that  kid  from  the  '  Fire- 
fly,' Lady  Graeme  is  booked  for  '  Pin  Money,  and  the 
way  I  make  it/  and  now  you  come  along  with 
'  Delilah  in  Debrett/  a  subject  that  will  write  itself." 


OCTOBER  283 

"Delilah  in  Debrett?"  I  queried  in  wonder. 

"Rather!"  and  Steward's  eye  flashed  journalistic 
fire.  "  A  cause  celebre  in  the  making,  the  stolen 
sweets  of  the  Season,  the  shearing  of  a  fashionable 
Samson.  It's  great ;  we'll  wind  up  with  it,  and  boom 
ourselves  sky-high." 

"  It's  too  great  for  me,"  I  retorted,  "  so  there ! " 
And  not  another  word  would  I  say  on  the  matter,  al- 
though Steward  pledged  the  Evening  Star's  credit  up 
to  the  hilt. 

Steward's  suggestion,  however,  drove  Lady  Ful- 
lard's  gossip  still  further  into  my  thoughts,  and  I 
retired  to  bed  with  a  growing  inclination  to  satisfy 
myself  as  to  its  correctness. 

I  haven't  been  a  reporter  for  nothing.  A  man  who 
can  work  up  a  column  and  a  half  a  day,  for  the  best 
part  of  a  week,  out  of  a  hint  dropped  by  an  inebriated 
cabman,  and  a  wrong  address,  isn't  going  to  be 
balked  by  a  maid  who  says  "  Not  at  home,"  and  an 
Indian  civilian  who  refuses  to  reply  to  letters.  Find- 
ing my  direct  way  blocked,  I  had  recourse  to  chan- 
nels of  information  which  are  open  to  members  of  the 
Fourth  Estate,  and  pieced  together  the  following  facts 
as  being  a  strictly  reliable  sequence  to  the  scene 
enacted  on  the  lawn  of  the  Welcome  Club  last 
August. 

It  had  been  perfectly  obvious  on  that  occasion  that 
the  scales  of  affection  between  the  lady  and  her 
cavalier  did  not  hang  evenly.  Mrs.  Mallow,  having 
fallen  from  her  trivial  round  of  tepid  flirtation,  and 
insincere  acquaintanceship  with  people  whom  in  her 
snobbish  soul  she  despised,  into  a  state  of  genuine 
feeling,  thought  the  world  well  lost  in  the  Captain's 
company,  Rowan,  on  the  other  hand,  was  inspired 


284  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

by  no  loftier  an  emotion  than  a  desire  for  amusement, 
and  his  amatory  plan  of  campaign  included,  at  a  very 
definite  point  on  the  map,  -a  retreat  for  them  both, 
Mrs.  Mallow  to  her  husband's  arms,  he  to  India  and 
his  regiment.  But,  in  defiance  'both  of  convention  and 
strategy,  the  lady  persisted  in  .lingering  on  in  the 
south  to  the  despair  of  the  Captain,  whose  leave  did 
not  expire  until  November.  In  her  ordinary  mood 
of  arch  coquetry  Mrs.  Mallow  was  trying  enough. 
Under  the  influence  of  a  strong  attachment  from 
which  legal — or  indeed  social — sanction  was  withheld 
she  became  a  woman  whom  a  St.  Anthony  alone  could 
have  managed  successfully.  There  was  no  character 
in  the  whole  range  of  history  or  mythology  whom 
the  Captain  less  resembled  than  that  particular  saint. 
And  whatever  tolerance  he  may  have  had  for  the 
feminine  weaknesses  of  Mrs.  Mallow  he  lost  during  a 
period  in  which  he  employed  every  argument  of  per- 
suasion and  threat  to  induce  compliance  with  his  view 
that  the  sooner  "  Julia "  went  to  Harrogate  and 
"  hubby  "  the  better  for  all  parties  concerned.  Rowan 
uttered  his  words  of  wisdom  with  the  voice  of  a  bully. 
Matters  came  to  a  head  with  a  stormy  scene  in  the 
dining-room  at  Porchester  Terrace,  the  man  shouting 
out  that  he  hated  the  very  sight  of  her  baby  face,  and 
then  decamping  to  an  unknown  destination.  After 
weeping  her  eyes  out,  the  deserted  lady  ricochetted 
into  a  fit  of  connubial  remorse,  and  out  of  it  to  Harro- 
gate. 

But  Mrs.  Mallow  had  fallen  out  of  the  frying-pan 
of  brutality  into  the  fire  of  selfishness  and  hypochon- 
dria. She  found  the  husband  she  had  married 
propped  up  in  a  bath  chair,  with  lackluster  eyes,  a 
shaking  hand,  and  a  mind  concentrated  on  his  dietary. 


OCTOBER  285 

The  waters  of  Harrogate  acting  on  a  constitution  cor- 
roded by  Eastern  suns  had  turned  Ponting-Mallow's 
thoughts  inward.  What- to  eat  and  what  not  to  eat 
were  now  the  supreme  facts  of  his  existence.  His 
wife  he  expected  to  take  the  place  of  nurse,  a  position 
for  which,  had  she. known  it,  she  had  always  been 
designated,  even  on  her  wedding  day.  A  potential 
nurse,  to  be  fed  and  clothed  till  the  day  came  for  her 
to  sit  by  his  bedside,  measure  out  his  doses,  stir  the 
fire,  and  read  aloud — due  reward  and  provision  be- 
ing made  for  her  by  will — that  was  what  Ponting- 
Mallow  had  seen  in  the  white-robed  figure,  crowned 
with  orange  blossoms,  meekly  awaiting  by  the  altar- 
steps  the  service  that  was  to  turn  her  from  a  free 
woman  into  an  old  man's  perquisite.  Then  London, 
with  its  promiscuous  hospitality,  its  endless  functions, 
its  willingness  to  ask  no  questions  so  long  as  it  was 
amused,  had  kept  the  young  wife  in  cheerful  igno- 
rance. There  are  plenty  of  doors  in  town  that  will 
open  to  a  nes  retroussee  and  a  twenty-one-inch  waist, 
and  any  number  of  tables  at  which  a  permanent  place 
is  kept  for  such  qualifications.  In  the  husband  Mrs. 
Mallow  met  at  the  Yorkshire  health  resort  she,  for  the 
first  time,  realized  her  fate. 

Try  as  she  would,  Mrs.  Mallow  could  not  inure  her- 
self to  the  penance  which  was  inflicted  on  her.  For 
all  his  roughness,  the  Captain  was  virile,  he  mingled 
his  insults  with  caresses,  and  he  went  some  way  to- 
ward satisfying  the  longings  of  Mrs.  Mallow's  empty 
heart.  The  contrast  was  too  much  for  the  lady.  She 
stayed  a  fortnight  in  an  atmosphere  of  bath  chairs 
and  dressing  gowns,  and  plunged  in  a  soul-destroying 
routine  of  dietetic  observance,  for  an  invalid  with  the 
soul  of  a  mummy,  before  dispatching  a  telegram  to 


286  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

Rowan's  club  and  flying  from  the  intolerable  ennui  of 
Ponting  and  the  Spa. 

It  takes  two  to  make  a  meeting,  however,  and  the 
wily  soldier  was  not  to  be  drawn  from  his  retreat  by 
appealing  notes  or  prepaid  wires.  September  waxed 
and  waned,  the  crops  were  cut,  blinds  were  drawn  up, 
and  still  Mrs.  Mallow  scoured  the  West  End  of  Lon- 
don by  day,  and  at  night  sat  disconsolate  amidst  the 
sheeted  furniture  of  her  ill-starred  home.  But  the 
reliance  of  the  lady  on  the  homing  instinct  drawing 
the  leisured  bachelor  back  to  the  metropolis  from  moor 
and  mountain  to  replenish  his  wardrobe,  and  refill 
his  cartridge-magazine,  had  its  just  reward.  The  Cap- 
tain was  run  to  earth  one  morning  in  the  Burlington 
Arcade,  and  what  I  suspect  to  have  been  a  comedy  of 
dissimulation  took  place  on  both  sides.  Rowan,  caught 
unawares,  unconditionally  surrendered,  apologized  for 
the  manner  of  his  abrupt  departure,  and  pleaded  deep 
regrets  for  the  inconvenient  illness  of  an  Irish  uncle, 
which  had  kept  him  so  long  from  the  side  of  his 
"Julia."  Mrs.  Mallow  graciously  accepted  the  la- 
bored excuses,  concealing  whatever  feelings  might  have 
possessed  her  under  a  sweet  smile.  The  old  relations 
were  resumed  with  new  trappings,  and  the  resorts  of 
autumn  fashion  once  more  received  the  lady  and  the 
soldier. 

As  to  the  permanence  of  the  affair  I  can  offer  no 
opinion.  All  I  know  is  that,  wherever  the  final  scene 
is  enacted,  it  will  not  be  in  the  pages  of  Steward's 
journal. 

•  •  •  •  !•:  r»; 

Haines  and  I  are  both  agreed  that,  in  the  interests 
of  science,  George  Burn  ought  to  bequeath  his  brain 
to  the  College  of  Surgeons  for  dissection  and  pres- 


OCTOBER  287 

crvation,  since  nothing  else  but  abnormal  cerebral 
development  can  account  for  his  vagaries.  In  July 
he  was  convinced  that  only  the  instant  adoption  of 
Mormonism  would  save  him  from  the  consequences  of 
his  temperament  Now,  in  October,  he  is  all  for 
celibacy  and  death  to  Brigham  Young.  George  at- 
tributes his  changed  ideas  to  "years  that  bring  the 
philosophic  mind,"  but,  for  the  matter  of  that,  he  is 
only  three  months  older  than  when  he  told  me  at 
Lord's  about  Lady  Lucy  Goring  and  Kitty  Denver, 
and  I  notice  nothing  philosophical  about  him,  save  a 
tendency  to  moralize,  which  the  sooner  he  drops  the 
better.  No,  the  reason  for  George's  sudden  conver- 
sion is  the  same  as  that  of  the  couplet : 

When  the  devil  was  sick,  the  devil  a  monk  would  be, 
When  the  devil  was  well,  the  devil  a  monk  was  he. 

'And  a  week  at  Henley  Hall  with  Lady  Lucy's  peo- 
ple, and  Kitty  Denver  also  staying  there,  was  enough 
to  cure  George  forever  of  so  carrying  on  with  two 
young  women  that  they  both  fancied  him  in  love  with 
them. 

George  himself  was  not  inclined  to  be  communica- 
tive on  the  events  of  that  week. 

"I  was  off  color  in  the  match/*  he  told  us  at  the 
club,  and  no  wonder,  with  the  uncertainty  as  to  what 
every  hour  might  bring  forth  in  the  shape  of  re- 
proaches, recriminations,  and  even  sterner  rebukes 
from  the  outraged  pride  of  the  daughter  of  a  hundred 
earls  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  Transatlantic  heiress  on 
the  other.  With  forethought,  tact,  and  good  luck, 
one  might  manage  in  town  to  prevent  the  rival  forces 
meeting,  and  save  oneself  from  the  fate  of  a  "wish- 
bone "  at  their  hands,  but  within  the  circumference  of 


288  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

a  country  house  it  would  be  impossible  for  any  man 
so  to  control  fate  as  to  let  each  lady  still  continue  to 
think  that  she  was  "the  one  and  only"  without  her 
suspecting  the  presence  of  another.  George  hadn't 
managed  it,  anyhow.  When  I  inquire4  after  Lady 
Lucy  he  turned  a  heavy  eye  on  me,  and  said  "  she 
was  fairly  fit "  in  a  tone  that  implied  she  hadn't  fitted 
in  at  all. 

"Wasn't  Miss  Denver  staying  down  there  too?" 
asked  Archie  Haines,  willfully  ignoring  the  fact  that 
George  had  himself  informed  us  of  her  presence  not 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  previously. 

"  I  believe  she  was,"  replied  George,  with  a  singular 
absence  of  interest. 

"  Believe ! "  chuckled  Haines.  "  I  thought  she  was 
a  particular  pal  of  yours." 

"I  didn't  see  much  of  her,"  George  answered 
wearily. 

"You  were  with  Lady  Lucy  most  of  the  time,  I 
suppose?"  Haines  put  his  finishing  question  with  a 
fair  assumption  of  indifference. 

"  I  didn't  see  much  of  her  either,"  George  made 
reply.  "  Shut  up  asking  me  questions,  I'm  going  to 
take  forty  winks,"  and  he  composed  himself  accord- 
ingly. 

At  the  tnirty-ninth  wink,  by  my  watch,  George  stole 
a  peep  and  found  us  still  staring  at  him.  Haines 
shook  his  head.  George  sat  up  wide-awake  in  an  in- 
stant. 

"You  haven't  had  much"  of  a  nap,"  I  said,  "and 
you  want  all  the  rest  you  can  get  after  the  sleepless 
nights  you've  had  lately." 

George  showed  no  signs  of  comprehension,  so  I  was 
forced  to  elaborate.  "  Henley  Hall — remorse  at  hav- 


OCTOBER  289 

ing  treated  two  nice  girls  so  badly — the  smart  of  re- 
cent wounds — you  know ! " 

"Bilge ! "  George  reserves  this  expressive  term  for 
emergencies. 

"  You'd  better  give  us  the  true  version,"  I  went  on ; 
"otherwise  the  story  will  be  getting  about  that  you 
were  tarred  and  feathered  for  constructive  bigamy,  or 
for  being  an  accessory  before  the  act." 

"The  truth  is,"  said  George,  "that  girls  read  a 
great  deal  too  much  into  a  man's  unstudied  actions." 

"  When  they  ought  to  know,"  added  Haines,  "  that 
he  is  only  passing  the  time  with  them,  and  doesn't 
mean  half  he  says  and  does." 

I  was  beginning  to  be  interested.  "What  does  he 
say  and  do  ?  "  I  inquired. 

George  shuffled  his  feet  and  pretended  not  to  hear. 
Haines  answered  my  question. 

"Tells  her  how  sweet  she  looks,  and  that  he  must 
have  supper  and  all  the  extras,  and  that  he's  never 
seen  such  small  hands,  and  he's  so  sorry  she's  angry, 
but  if  he  hadn't  liked  her  very  much  he  would  never 
have  done  it,  and  isn't  that  the  music,  and  will  she  be 
in  the  Park  next  morning?  " 

"  Well,  if  he  says  all  that,"  I  gasped,  "  he  deserves 
as  many  wives  as  Solomon." 

Haines  stared  at  George,  who  was  smiling — at  his 
own  thoughts,  presumably. 

"Philanderers,  like  our  friend  George" — Haines' 
voice  was  very  stern — "  deserve  '  the  Death  of  a  Thou- 
sand Cuts*  inflicted  by  their  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances— the  cut  direct,  the  cut  by  inference,  the  cut 
dance — social  ostracism,  in  fact,  for  a  heartless 
criminal." 

"  I  agree,"  I  chimed  in,  "  but  as  Society  is  at  pres- 


290  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

ent  constituted,  George  gets  petted  and  pampered,  and 
encouraged  in  his  wild  and  willful  ways,  and  supplied 
with  fresh  victims  by  eager  mothers,  while  a  poor 
fellow  like  Griffiths,  with  no  spirit,  gets  *  caught  out' 
the  first  time." 

"  That's  strange,"  said  George,  joining  in  of  a  sud- 
den. "What  made  you  mention  Griffiths?  He's  in 
the  club  somewhere.  He  was  creeping  upstairs  as  I 
came  in." 

Haines  summoned  a  servant.  "Our  compliments 
to  Major  Griffiths,"  he  dictated,  "and  Mr.  Hanbury 
and  myself  would  be  glad  if  he  would  join  us  here." 

"It's  no  use,"  said  George,  getting  on  his  feet  as 
the  man  disappeared.  "It  will  take  more  than  that 
to  get  Griffiths  to  meet  us  all.  I'll  go  and  see  what 
I  can  do." 

Haines  and  I  "looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild 
surmise." 

"  It  sounds  sad,"  he  whispered  to  me. 

"  Excruciating,"  I  whispered  back.  "  The  saddest 
thing  since  Henry  VIII  died.  Hush,  here  he  comes !  " 

We  could  just  tell  that  the  figure  entering  the  room 
at  that  moment  was  our  old  friend  Griffiths,  but  how 
changed  from  the  victor  of  many  a  hard-won  fight 
over  "snooker-pool";  the  warrior  whose  complexion 
mocked  the  rising  sun;  the  man  behind  "the  man 
behind  the  gun,"  and  ready  to  stay  there  so  long  as 
the  cherry  brandy  in  the  butt  lasted ;  the  sportsman  at 
ten  stone  four,  "ready  to  meet  any  other  sportsman 
for  a  purse  of  ten  sovs.  and  half  the  gate"  at  biting 
an  inch  off  the  end  of  the  poker;  the  Merry  Andrew, 
experienced  in  giving  supper  to  rising  "  stars,"  and 
seeing  shooting  ones  afterward — how  changed! 
There  was  no  difference  that  one  could  lay  an  im- 


OCTOBER  291 

mediate  finger  on,  but  the  whole  man  had  altered 
somehow,  much  as  though  he  had  shrunk,  although 
that  wasn't  the  explanation,  because  Griffiths'  clothes 
fitted  him  far  better  than  in  the  old  days,  were  neater, 
more  fashionable,  and  his  trousers  had  a  crease — but 
in  some  subtle  way  virtue  had  gone  out  of  him.  The 
man  we  had  known  was  dead,  and  a  changeling  spirit 
in  possession.  This  ghost  of  Griffiths  stared  at  us  as 
though  we  had  been  strangers,  and  Haines  and  I 
found  no  other  words  of  welcome  than  the  conven- 
tional "  Hope  you're  well."  We  could  no  more  have 
slapped  him  on  the  back  than  we  could  have  offered 
him  a  drink. 

Fortunately  for  our  good  name  as  bachelors,  George 
had  had  no  misgivings  in  that  direction,  for  a  waiter 
stepped  forward  with  four  whisky-and-sodas  on  a 
tray,  mixed  according  to  the  Major's  famous  recipe — 
"  two  big  whiskies  and  a  small  soda  split,  and  not 
quite  all  the  soda,  please." 

"Here's  luck!"  said  George,  raising  his  glass. 
Haines  and  I  followed  suit.  "  Here's  luck ! " 

The  look  of  despair  on  Griffiths'  face,  as  he  paused 
before  the  tumbler  that  should  have  been  his,  checked 
our  action  in  mid-air. 

"  Finish  the  toast  without  me,  you  fellows,"  the 
Major  said,  with  painful  distinctness  and  hesitation. 
"I'll  have  a  limejuice  and  'polly*  instead.  My  wife 
thinks  I'm  inclined  to  gout." 

We  all  stared  open-mouthed.  Inclined  to  gout! 
Why,  Griffiths  had  been  a  martyr  to  gout  for  years, 
but  he'd  never  thought  it  necessary  to  take  so  drastic 
a  step  as  knocking  off  his  "  pegs  "  for  such  a  trifle. 
According  to  the  same  chain  of  reasoning,  the  lion  in 
the  Zoo  ought  to  leave  off  meat  and  subsist  on  nuts, 


292  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

because  it  sometimes  gets  indigestion  from  swallowing 
a  shin  bone.  The  thing  is  simply  not  worth  it. 

Haines  left  his  glass  untouched,  I  rubbed  my  eyes 
to  make  certain  I  wasn't  having  a  nightmare,  and 
George's  whisky  went  down  the  wrong  way,  and  he 
collapsed  in  a  paroxysm  of  coughing.  The  Major 
felt  that  an  apology  was  expected  of  him. 

"  Faith  says,"  he  began,  "  that  I'm  putting  on  too 
much  weight  for  my  years,  and  that  I  shall  enjoy  life 
much  more  with  two  stone  less  to  carry." 

Here  Griffiths  puffed  his  chest  out  to  prove  the 
soundness  of  Mrs.  Griffiths'  counsel.  We  three  con- 
tinued, to  sit  there  like  children  at  a  conjuring  enter- 
tainment, in  eager  anticipation  of  a  rabbit  and  a  bowl 
of  goldfish  being  produced  from  beneath  the  perform- 
er's waistcoat.  To  fill  up  an  awkward  pause — since 
no  rabbit  or  goldfish  appeared — the  Major  took  a  sip 
at  his  limejuice  horror,  and  absent-mindedly  made  a 
very  wry  face — absent-mindedly,  because  it  didn't  fit 
in  with  his  role  of  the  repentant  sinner  rejoicing  in 
his  salvation. 

"  I  shall  hope  occasionally  to  see  something  of  you 
all  now  I  am  back  in  town,"  he  proceeded,  with  the 
aspect  of  reciting  a  lesson  he  had  committed  to 
memory.  "Faith  says " 

But  here  Haines'  patience  gave  way. 

"  Confound  what  your  wife  says,  Griffiths !  Judg- 
ing by  the  instances  you've  quoted,  she  talks  utter 
piffle.  The  important  point  is,  what  do  you  say? 
Haven't  you  any  opinion  of  your  own  now  you  are 
married  ?  " 

"  Temper  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,  Archie ! "  I 
said.  "  Don't  lay  down  such  a  startling  doctrine  to. 
a  newly  married  man,  all  at  once !  We  must  help  him 


OCTOBEB  293 

to  stand  alone  gradually.  When  he  has  learned  to 
fasten  his  boots  up  by  himself,  we  can  then  teach  him 
how  to  smoke  a  cigarette — only  one  at  a  time,  though, 
lest  the  pretty  drawing-room  curtains  smell ! " 

The  Major  had  sunk  into  a  chair  in  amazement  at 
the  reception  accorded  to  Mrs.  Griffiths'  wisdom.  But 
George  had  still  to  have  his  say. 

"If  you  come  into  the  club,  Major,  you've  got  to 
behave  like  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman,  not  like  a 
savage,  babbling  of  limejuice,  and  banting ! " 

The  Major  had  not  yet  learned  his  salutary  lesson. 
"  But  Faith "  he  began. 

"Man  cannot  live  by  Faith"  alone,"  retorted  the 
merciless  George,  "  and  if  you  try  to,  you'll  be  under- 
ground by  next  Christmas.  What's  the  good,  my 
dear  fellow,  of  going  to  all  the  expense  and  trouble  of 
acquiring  bad  habits,  if  you're  going  to  *  chuck '  them 
at  the  orders  of  a  girl  who  wasn't  born  when  you 
smoked  your  first  cigar,  and  who'll  wish  she  never  had 
been  by  the  time  you've  smoked  your  last?  " 

To  convince,  a  point  of  view  has  only  to  be  stated 
emphatically  enough.  The  gloom  cleared  from  the 
Major's  brow,  familiar  wrinkles  deepened  around  his 
mouth,  the  merry  crow's-feet  reappeared,  the  un- 
natural repose  vanished  in  a  grin,  and  before  any  one 
realized  what  had  happened  a  decanter  stood  by 
Griffiths'  elbow,  and  he  had  mixed  a  potion  of  which 
the  rich  hue  gave  the  blush  of  Hebe's  cheek,  five 
"  bisques  "  and  beat  it  three  up  and  two  to  play. 

In  less  than  no  time  the  Major  was  confidential  as 
of  yore. 

"  My  wife,"  he  informed  us,  "  is  too  full  of  theories 
— wants  me  to  resign  the  club,  because  it  will  un- 
settle me  for  home  life.  AVhy,  I'd  resign  her  first! 


294  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

Didn't  tell  her  that,  though  " — and  the  Major  winked 
— "  said  I'd  break  it  off  by  degrees.  Faith's  a  clever 
woman,"  he  went  on,  nearly  at  the  end  of  the  decanter, 
"  but  she  doesn't  understand  men ;  very  few  of  'em  do 
— think  if  they  coddle  us  and  stroke  our  hair,  we're 
going  to  sit  at  home  every  night,  but  we're  not,  we're 
not!" 

The  Major  set  the  refrain  "  We're  not ! "  to  a  music- 
hall  tune  much  in  vogue  and  beat  time  with  his 
fingers. 

I  looked  at  my  watch.  "Faith's  saying  to  herself 
all  sorts  of  things  about  your  being  still  out,  Major. 
Oughtn't  you  to  be  going  to  her?" 

"  Hi,  there ! "  shouted  the  husband  so  addressed  to 
the  smoking-room  attendant.  "  Telephone  for  four 
stalls  at  Daly's,  and  tell  the  steward  I  am  dining  at 
7.30  with  three  friends,  and  want  oysters,  a  brace  of 
nice  partridges,  a  dish  of  Peches  Melba,  and  a  Jero- 
boam of  the  Pommery  1900!" 

Then  the  Major  looked  around  for  the  admiration 
he  sought,  and  found  it. 

"The  secret  of  a  happy  marriage,"  said  Haines  to 
me  sotto  voce,  as  we  left  the  place  to  dress  for  the 
Major's  dinner,  "is  for  the  respective  spheres  of  au- 
thority of  husband  and  wife  to  be  well  defined.  Each 
should  know  where  to  draw  the  line." 

"Just  so,"  I  replied.  "But  what  a  pity  Griffiths 
has  never  learned  to  draw  anything — except  corks ! " 

•  •  •  •  • 

Can  I  overcome  my  objections  to  matrimony  suffi- 
ciently to  give  up  my  flat,  and  the  vices  which  make 
life  worth  living,  and  clipping  the  wings  of  my  muse, 
put  it  in  a  nursery  to  croon  nonsense  to  a  fat  podgy 
creature  with  no  hair,  and  a  crinkled  mouth  that  blows 


OCTOBER  295 

bubbles,  and  says  "  Goo-goo  "  ?  I  was  beginning  to 
think  I  could,  till  Audrey  Maitland  came  to  tea  here 
this  afternoon,  under  the  chaperonage  of  Lady  Susan 
Thurston,  and  had  a  desperate  flirtation  with  Give 
Massey,  while  I,  the  host,  was  neglected.  Besides 
being  a  gross  breach  of  the  laws  of  hospitality,  it  was 
exceedingly  thoughtless  of  Audrey,  for  although  he 
apes  the  ways  of  a  man,  Massey  is  only  a  boy,  and  to 
play  with  a  boy's  feelings  is  shameful.  Dolly  Thnrs- 
ton  has  certain  rights  in  him  which  oughtn't  to  have 
been  ignored  as  they  were,  and  I  blame  her  for  watch- 
ing impassively  while  her  friend — if  Audrey  is  still 
her  friend — made  a  barefaced  assault  on  Massey's 
heart.  Lady  Susan,  too,  should  have  had  more  sense 
of  what  was  due  to  her  daughter  than  to  have  tolerated 
the  proceedings.  And  as  for  Massey,  letting  himself 
be  made  a  stalking-horse  by  an  outrageous  flirt,  so  that 
a  fellow-man,  who  has  befriended  him  like  a  father, 
might  suffer  cruelly  by  his  folly — the  less  said  about 
his  ignoble  part  the  -better. 

No,  I'm  not  jealous.  I  have  many,  many  faults, 
but  jealousy  is  not  one  of  them.  I  am  deeply  pained 
and  grieved,  that  is  all,  at  my  misjudgment  of  all 
their  characters,  and  I'll  never  speak  to  Miss  Audrey 
Maitland  again.  Indiscriminate  flirting  is  a  social 
curse  that  must  be  stamped  out  at  all  costs,  and  I 
intend  to  show  my  whole-hearted  disapproval  of  the 
practice  by  cutting  one  of  the  worst  offenders — Miss 
Audrey  Maitland — at  the  first  opportunity.  Mean- 
while, I  sent  the  following  letter  after  her,  directly  she 
had  left: 

"DEAR  Miss  MAITLAND: 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  could  come  to  tea,  and  that  you 


296  TOO   MANY  WOMEN 

got  on  so  well  with  Give  Massey.  He's  a  charming 
fellow,  and  with  no  fault  save  that  he's  unstable  in  his 
affections,  and  forgets  all  the  old  faces  when  he's  at- 
tracted by  a  new  one,  which  is  pretty  often.  Person- 
ally, I  prefer  old  friends  best.  But  after  your  conduct 
this  afternoon,  I  can't  expect  you  to  agree  with  me. 

"  In  case  you  may  wish  to  see  more  of  Mr.  Massey, 
he  is  up  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford.  Telegraphic  ad- 
dress :  '  Blood.  Peckwater/  But '  Stage  Door,  Fire- 
fly Theater '  will  be  more  likely  to  find  him. 

"  I  am  just  off  around  the  world ! 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"G.  HANBURY." 

...  I  had  mapped  the  whole  thing  out  so  beauti- 
fully. Lady  Susan  was  to  sit  in  the  big  armchair 
by  the  table  and  preside,  Dolly  and  Massey  were  to 
occupy  the  sofa  near  the  fireplace,  while  my  writing 
chair,  reserved  for  Audrey,  was  so  placed  that  it  could 
be  left  without  disturbing  the  rest  of  the  party,  and 
Audrey  be  shown  my  treasures  till  we  had  maneuvered 
around  to  the  small  settee  behind  the  bookcase,  where 
she  and  I  were  to  remain  ensconced  until  Lady  Susan 
thought  "things  had  gone  on  long  enough."  I  had 
arranged  volumes  of  prints  and  photographs  handy 
so  that  the  chaperon's  attention  might  be  occupied  if 
the  conversation  flagged.  Dolly  and  her  young  man 
could  be  safely  left  to  their  own  resources. 

It  may  have  been  a  false  step  on  my  part  to  have 
gone  into  the  passage  to  meet  my  guests,  a  step  due 
to  my  anxiety  to  greet  Audrey  suitably,  for  when  I 
ought  to  have  been  stage-managing  the  party  within, 
I  was  hanging  up  coats  outside.  The  first  hitch 
occurred  when  Dolly  Thurston  plumped  into  the  place 


OCTOBER  297 

appointed  for  her  mother — the  minx  looked  ridiculous 
in  the  big  chair,  with  her  feet  not  touching  the  floor. 
Then,  if  you  please,  Lady  Susan  must  sit  down  on 
the  sofa  by  the  fire,  asking,  "  Who  is  coming  to  share 
this  with  me  ? "  I  thought  I'd  never  heard  such  a 
silly  question  from  a  grown-up  woman — as  though  she 
couldn't  perfectly  well  have  sat  there  by  herself. 
Massey,  however,  showed  no  signs  of  doing  the 
obvious  gentlemanly  thing,  by  saying,  "  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to,  Lady  Susan."  Nothing  of  the  sort;  in- 
stead, he  was  hanging  over  Miss  Maitland, — the  only 
person  to  take  the  right  chair, — chattering  to  her  as 
though  I  didn't  exist.  /  had  to  sit  by  Lady  Susan. 

When  things  begin  wrong,  they  generally  go  on 
from  bad  to  worse.  Dolly  poured  out  the  tea  dis- 
gracefully. One  cup  was  full  of  tea  leaves,  the  next 
was  too  strong  to  drink,  and  then,  going  to  the  other 
extreme,  she  flooded  the  pot  and  gave  me  hot  water 
faintly  flavored  with  Orange  Pekoe.  Audrey  Mait- 
land was  in  a  mischievous  mood,  laughing  at  Massey's 
brainless  remarks  as  though  they  contained  the  essence 
of  wit,  and  then  rallying  me  on  my  silence.  As  for 
Lady  Susan,  she  was  as  "jumpy"  as  the  Chicago 
Wheat  Pit  in  a  crisis.  The  cushions  didn't  suit,  the 
footstool  had  to  be  placed  at  a  different  angle,  she 
wanted  milk  instead  of  cream,  and  her  tea  cake  had 
to  be  changed  for  a  sweet  biscuit.  It  would  have 
given  me  the  utmost  pleasure  to  have  smothered  her 
in  her  own  veil,  and  hid  her  body  in  the  wainscoting. 
Her  one  redeeming  feature  was  that  she  liked  my 
rooms,  and  said  so. 

"  This  is  a  charming  place  of  yours,  Mr.  Hanbury. 
Do  you  get  through  much  work  here?" 

"Mr.  Hanbury  doesn't  do  any  work,"  put  in  Miss 


298  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

Maitland,  before  I  could  reply.     "  His  theatrical  cor- 
respondence takes  up  all  his  time." 

An  uneasy  thought  crept  into  my  mind  that  the  girl 
might  know  about  the  letter  I  had  in  my  pocket  from 
Cynthia,  asking  me  to  go  to  the  next  Covent  Garden 
ball  and  save  her  from  an  all-night  dose  of  Jimmy 
Berners.  As  Audrey  was  neither  Miss  Maskelyne, 
nor  Miss  Cooke,  I  dismissed  the  suspicion,  for  a  feel- 
ing of  annoyance  at  the  cool  aspersion  on  my  char- 
acter. 

"  Lady  Susan,"  I  replied,  "  I  do  all  my  work  here. 
Knowing  nothing  of  my  habits,  Miss  Maitland  thinks 
it  amusing  to  invent." 

.  "  Manners  have  changed  very  much  since  I  was  a 
girl,"  Lady  Susan  remarked.  "  We  were  taught  in 
those  days  to  take  men  seriously,  and  we  married  very 
much  earlier,  in  consequence." 

Was  Lady  Susan  becoming  a  humorist?  Audrey 
Maitland  and  Dolly  broke  into  shrieks  of  laughter, 
the  latter  saying,  "  Mother,  you  are  funny ! "  I  con- 
fess I  saw  nothing  funny  in  Lady  Susan's  statement, 
which  struck  me  as  extremely  sensible. 

"That's  why  American  women  have  to  come  over 
to  Europe  to  find  husbands,"  explained  Massey,  tak- 
ing part  in  the  general  conversation  for  the  first  time, 
" They  never  'go  off '  in  New  York,  because  they 
'  pull  fellows'  legs  so.' " 

"'Pull  fellows'  legs'?"  asked  Lady  Susan. 
"What  dreadful  slang  is  that,  Gerald?" 

Massey  looked  abashed — for  him. 

"  Make  fun  of  them,  tease  them — what  Miss  Mait- 
land was  doing  to  Hanbury,"  he  explained. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Lady  Susan,  looking  across  at 
the  girl,  "  I  hope  you  were  doing  nothing  of  the  sort. 


OCTOBER  299 

As  I  am  always  telling  Dolly,  'If  you  want  men  to 
like  you,  you  must  humor  them!" 

Miss  Maitland  gave  a  becoming  toss  of  her  head. 

"I  don't  believe  any  man  would  respect  a  woman 
who  showed  she  had  so  little  self-respect  as  to  descend 
to  flattery  to  make  him  like  her." 

I  liked  the  spirit  with  which  that  was  said,  and  the 
blush  accompanying  it,  but  then  the  girl  spoiled  the 
whole  effect  by  withdrawing  with  Massey  to  the  alcove 
behind  the  bookshelf  which  I  had  mentally  reserved 
for  our  two  selves,  and  there  carrying  on  a  whispered 
duologue  which  entirely  destroyed  my  peace  of  mind, 
and  led  me  into  inattention  toward  the  remarks  of 
Lady  Susan  and  her  daughter.  Dolly's  equanimity 
in  the  situation  created  by  her  friend's  coquetry,  and 
Massey's  neglect,  filled  me  with  astonishment.  Surely 
there  couldn't  be  connivance  on  her  part,  and  myself 
the  victim  of  a  carefully  laid  plot  ?  I  was  still  oc- 
cupied in  sounding  the  appalling  depths  of  treachery 
and  ingratitude  this  idea  revealed  when  Lady  Susan 
prepared  to  depart.  I  made  no  attempt  to  stop  her. 
Tea  parties  of  more  than  two  are  a  mistake,  and  with 
that  number  tea  is  merely  a  superfluity.  My  expres- 
sions of  regret  were  perfunctory  and  hypocritical,  and 
I  avoided  snaking  hands  with  Miss  Maitland.  I  don't 
like  nourishing  vipers  in  my  bosom. 

The  only  satisfaction  I  got  over  the  whole  affair  was 
in  writing  the  letter  to  Miss  Maitland,  although  I 
don't  quite  know  what  to  make  of  the  reply  I  received 
half  an  hour  ago. 

"  DEAR  MR.  HANBURY  : 

"Your  letter  was  unnecessary,  for  Mr.  Massey  had 
already  given  me  his  address.  I  think  you  have 


300  TOO    MANY   WOMEN 

formed  quite  a  wrong  impression  of  his  character, 
and  he  will,  I  am  sure,  prove  as  stable  a  friend  as  most 
people.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  '  my  conduct 
this  afternoon/  The  reference  seems  to  me  to  be 
rather  impertinent! 

"If  you  are  back  from  your  voyage  round  the 
world  by  then,  will  you  come  to  tea  with  me  next 
Tuesday  ? 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"A.  MAITLAND." 

Really  George  is  right.    The  less  one  has  to  do  with 

women  the  better! 

•  .  .  •  • 

I'm  not  superstitious,  and  I've  never  seen  anything 
in  the  shape  of  a  ghost,  but  I'm  as  certain  as  I'm 
sitting  here  at  my  desk  that  it  was  fate  which  made 
me  suggest  to  Archie  Haines  on  Saturday  night  that 
we  should  sup  at  the  Grecian  Restaurant  instead  of 
Oddi's,  as  he  wanted.  I  have  hardly  been  to  the 
Grecian  since  my  'Varsity  days,  and  the  last  time  I  did 
go  our  party  left  without  paying  for  the  crockery  and 
glass  we  had  broken  while  pelting  an  objectionable 
individual  at  the  far  end  of  the  supper-room  with  rolls. 
But  we  were  unlikely  to  meet  people  we  knew  there, 
and  I  was  afraid  of  Haines  tacking  us  on  to  another 
table  if  we  went  to  a  resort  which  he  and  his  friends 
patronized  to  the  extent  they  did  Oddi's. 

The  gallery  of  the  Grecian,  divided  up  into  com- 
partments looking  on  to  the  restaurant,  allows  the 
occupants  to  see  everything  passing  below  without 
becoming  themselves  the  subject  of  observation.  For 
this  reason  the  place  is  in  great  request  among  a 
certain  section  of  the  cosmopolitan  London  world,  and 
accordingly  Haines  and  I  thought  ourselves  in  luck's 


OCTOBER  301 

way  to  secure  the  last  box  that  was  vacant,  and  with 
it  a  chance  to  sup  in  peace  before  the  unkind  licensing 
law  of  the  land  turned  us  adrift  at  midnight.  Once 
engaged  in  the  congenial  task  of  sampling  the  oysters 
and  deviled  kidneys  which  Haines  and  the  waiter  in 
collaboration  had  set  before  us,  there  was  plenty  to 
draw  our  interest  in  the  piquancy  of  the  crowded 
supper  tables,  the  glow  of  rose-colored  lights,  the 
soft  caress  of  conversation,  the  undercurrent  of  pas- 
sion which  throbbed  in  the  air  and  sent  the  warm  tide 
of  youth  flowing  the  more  fiercely  through  our  veins. 
The  men,  well  groomed  and  opulent,  the  women, 
en  grande  toilette,  their  necks  flashing  diamonds,  their 
fingers  beringed,  floated  on  a  sea  of  pleasure,  the 
waves  of  which  beat  upon  us. 

Haines  and  I  snapped  our  fingers  at  despair,  steal- 
ing just  one  hour  of  careless  merriment  from  the  heri- 
tage of  sorrow  and  regrets  which  Time  holds  in  trust 
for  all  the  sons  of  men.  We  surrendered  ourselves 
to  the  spell  that  was  being  woven  in  smiles  and 
laughter  by  our  fellow-revelers. 

"  You  wouldn't  think  there  was  much  wrong  with 
the  world  to  look  at  this,"  remarked  Haines,  voicing 
my  own  thoughts  as  he  did  so.  The  words  had 
scarcely  crossed  his  lips  than,  in  dramatic  contradic- 
tion, there  came  a  crash  out  of  the  partition  at  his 
back. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Haines  pleasantly. 

A  second,  and  a  harder,  blow  followed. 

My  companion  laid  down  a  spoon  with  which  he 
had  been  demolishing  a  soufflee. 

"  Confound  the  fellow,  whoever  he  is,  making  that 
shindy!"  he  said.  "If  he  can't  carry  his  liquor  like 
a  gentleman  he  should  stop  at  home." 

And  Haines  proceeded  to  hammer  back — to  no  ef- 


302  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

feet,  for  to  the  tattoo  of  blows  on  the  wall  was  now 
added  a  voluble  clamor,  rising  to  such  a  crescendo  of 
sound  that  the  restaurant  paused  in  its  several  occupa- 
tions to  locate  the  uproar. 

I  went  to  the  door,  and,  looking  out,  waylaid  an 
agitated  waiter. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

"Ze  gentleman  say  'ees  bill  is  wrong,"  replied  the 
fellow,  all  eagerness  to  explain  and  justify  the  contro- 
versy of  our  neighbors.  "  I  nevair  make  out  ze  bills 
wrong,  nevair!  'Ee  'as  drunk  too  much.  Pauvre 
madame ! "  and  the  gargon  threw  up  his  hands  in  a 
pantomimic  gesture  of  sympathy. 

"  There's  a  woman  in  it,"  I  explained  to  Haines  as 
I  resumed  my  seat. 

"  Can't  we  do  a  little  prospecting  on  our  own  ?  "  he 
inquired,  as  he  went  to  the  balcony  and  looked  over. 
Apparently  he  could,  for,  craning  his  head  around  the 
corner  of  the  partition,  my  friend  proceeded  to  give 
me  details  of  the  field  of  battle  while  maintaining  a 
strategic  position  that  passed  unnoticed  by  the  com- 
batants, so  hotly  were  they  engaged. 

"A  case  of  Edwin  and  Angelina,"  Haines  tele- 
graphed back  to  where  I  stood,  "  with  all  the  makings 
of  a  rare  old  row.  Edwin,  full  of  wine,  is  swearing 
like  a  trooper  that  he  never  ordered  *  Cordon  Rouge,' 
and  that  he'll  be  hanged  if  he'll  pay  for  what  has 
been  drunk  in  mistake.  Angelina,  *  perfect  little 
laidy ' — but  wishing  she  hadn't  taken  a  night  out  with 
a  chap  who  looks  like  ending  up  in  Vine  Street.  Stern 
manager,  black  as  thunder,  and  wondering  whether 
he  shall  call  in  the  police,  or  chuck  the  Johnny  out 
himself.  Hello,  there's  the  first  casualty !  " 

The  crash  of  breaking  glass  corroborated  Haines. 


OCTOBER  303 

He  swiftly  withdrew  his  head  and  reappeared  at  my 
side. 

"  I'm  going  to  get  out  of  that,"  he  remarked,  "  be- 
fore they  start  flinging  the  rest  of  the  table  decorations 
about.  Take  a  look  yourself,  Hanbury,"  Haines  went 
on,  as  though  my  personal  safety  could  be  endangered 
with  impunity,  "  and  see  what  you  diagnose  the  thing 
at." 

I  did  as  Haines  bade  me,  for  with  everybody  else 
in  the  Grecian  an  interested  spectator  of  the  scene,  I 
felt  out  of  it.  So,  gripping  the  railing  of  the  balcony, 
I  stretched  my  head  into  full  view  of  the  affair. 

Gracious  heavens,  what  did  I  see? — Mrs.  Ponting- 
Mallow,  with  that  blackguard  captain  by  his  disgrace- 
ful behavior  turning  the  limelight  on  her  and  her 
folly !  I  scrambled  back  to  Haines. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"I  know  the  woman,"  I  exclaimed,  panting  with 
excitement.  "  She'll  go  under  for  good  if  any  scandal 
comes  out." 

"What  can  you  do?"  queried  Haines. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  said,  "  except  tell  a  cad  what  I 
think  of  him.  But  I'm  going  next  door  all  the 
same." 

Haines'  only  answer  was  to  fit  a  cigarette  into  his 
holder  and  follow  me  outside.  It  would  have  been 
useless  to  stand  upon  ceremony  for  an  entry  into  the 
next  compartment,  where  the  devil's  own  row  was 
proceeding,  so  we  merely  thrust  our  way  through  the 
knot  of  eavesdropping  waiters  clustered  round  the 
door,  and  marched  straight  in  upon  the  stage  set  for 
the  last  act  of  "  Mrs.  Mallow's  Adventure." 

We  were  confronted  with  a  situation  that  promised 
to  lead  up  to  a  denouement  of  melodramatic  intensity. 


304  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

Captain  Rowan  was  lolling  back  in  his  chair,  before 
a  table  littered  with  the  debris  of  an  expensive  meal, 
both  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets,  his  face  flushed 
the  deep  red  of  excess,  the  veins  on  his  temples  swollen 
with  anger,  his  eyes  bloodshot.  He  wore  a  look  of 
sullen  ferocity,  and  was  obviously  very  drunk.  Fac- 
ing him  stood  the  manager  of  the  Grecian,  a  massive 
foreigner  in  a  frock  coat,  at  the  end  of  his  endurance, 
for  as  we  appeared  he  issued  the  ultimatum  that  if 
Monsieur  wouldn't  pay  his  bill  and  leave  quietly  the 
police  should  be  sent  for  and  he  would  be  given  in 
charge.  But  it  was  Mrs.  Mallow  whom  I  regarded 
with  most  solicitude,  where  she  sat  crying  into  a  lace 
handkerchief,  her  whole  body  quivering  with  sobs,  a 
picture  of  woe  and  abandonment  which  would  have 
stirred  any  chivalry  in  Rowan's  nature  had  he  pos- 
sessed such  a  soldierly  quality.  From  the  agonized 
and  terror-stricken  look  she  gave  as  she  raised  her 
tearstained  face  on  our  entrance,  I  believe  she  ex- 
pected the  police  to  arrive  every  moment.  Then  her 
expression  wavered  between  relief  at  seeing  me,  and 
shame  at  my  discovering  her  in  such  a  mise-en-scene. 

"Can  I  do  anything,  Mrs.  Mallow?"  I  said.  "I 
heard  the  broken  glass,  and  thought  perhaps  an  acci- 
dent had  occurred." 

The  excuse  was  very  lame,  but  it  servecl  to  justify 
my  intervention.  To  such  a  pitch  of  excitement  were 
we  all  wrought  that  no  explanations  as  to  the  nature 
of  the  predicament  in  which  Mrs.  Mallow  found  her- 
self seemed  required.  We  behaved  as  though  it  were 
the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world  to  meet  the  wife 
of  a  friend  supping  alone  in  the  Grecian  with  a  man 
other  than  her  husband,  and  that  man  intoxicated  into 


OCTOBER!  305 

the  bargain,  and  threatened  with  Vine  Street  police 
station  by  an  irate  manager. 

"I  am  a  friend  of  this  lady,"  I  explained  to  the 
latter,  who  was  inclined  for  a  moment  to  resent  an 
intrusion  which  might  mean  reinforcements  for  his 
refractory  client.  But  this  suspicion  was  instantly 
dispelled  by  the  action  of  the  Captain,  who,  mistaking 
us  for  members  of  the  restaurant  staff  come  to  assist 
in  his  expulsion,  rose  to  his  feet,  and  maintaining  an 
unsteady  position  by  leaning  on  the  table  for  support, 
glared  at  us  in  tipsy  menace. 

"  I  re-refush  pay  a  farthing  more,"  he  said  in  a 
thick  utterance,  "  if  I  shay  here  all  nigh'.  Wha'  you 
think  of  thish  for  a  bill  ?  "  and  he  flung  the  document 
at  my  head. 

"  If  it's  a  question  of  the  bill  I'll  settle  the  item  in 
dispute  if  it  will  only  make  you  go  home,"  I  replied. 
"  There's  the  lady  to  think  about !  " 

"  Wha'  lady  ?  "  spluttered  Rowan,  resuming  his  seat 
heavily  as  his  legs  suddenly  gave  way  under  him. 
"Wha'  lady?" 

"  The  lady  you've  been  dining  with,  of  course.  Pull 
yourself  together,  man!"  And  I  shook  him  by  the 
sleeve. 

"Lemme  go,"  the  Captain  exploded.  "I  don't 
know  wha'  you  mean." 

The  shock  of  this  denial  dried  Mrs.  Mallow's  tears, 
and  her  sobs  ceased. 

"Are  you  mad,  Stuart?"  she  asked,  in  astonish- 
ment. 

The  Captain's  expression  became  more  savage,  were 
that  possible. 

"  Hoi'  your  tongue !  "  he  growled.     "  I've  finish- 


306  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

shed  with  you;  never  inten'  shee  you  again,  whining 
all  sh-time  at  me.  Finish-shed ! " 

To  give  dramatic  point  to  his  words,  Rowan  swept 
his  arm  along  the  line  of  glasses  and  decanters  before 
him  and  hurled  them  to  the  ground. 

The  sight  of  this  destruction  was  too  much  for  the 
manager,  and  he  advanced  furiously  on  the  offender. 
The  storm  that  all  the  restaurant  was  waiting  open- 
mouthed  for,  men  and  women  clustering  at  every 
point  of  vantage  below,  seemed  about  to  burst, 
when  Mrs.  Ponting-Mallow  took  command  of  the 
stage. 

"  Leave  him  to  me,"  she  cried,  brushing  aside  the 
manager,  her  voice  thrilling  with  anger  at  the  Cap- 
tain's insult  to  herself.  Then  she  leaned  across  the 
table,  her  handkerchief  clenched  in  her  fist.  "  How 
dare  you,  Captain  Rowan?  Apologize  this  very 
minute ! " 

At  this  uprising  of  the  victim  the  other  three  of  us 
stood  spellbound.  Mrs.  Mallow  was  in  no  mood  to 
be  interfered  with. 

"  Will  you  apologize  ?  "  she  asked  again,  standing 
over  the  Captain  like  an  avenging  fury. 

Rowan  sat  stolidly  in  his  chair,  looking  at  the 
broken  glass,  but  said  never  a  word. 

"  Stuart,  you're  a  cur ! "  hissed  the  lady.  "  You've 
killed  every  atom  of  feeling  I  ever  had  for  you.  My 
deepest  shame  is  that  I  have  ever  known  you.  If  I 
were  a  man  I'd  horsewhip  you.  But  you  shall  re- 
member the  rest  of  your  miserable  life  what  my  scorn 
is  like,"  and  raising  her  fist,  she  leaned  across  the  table 
and  struck  Rowan  with  all  her  strength,  first  on  one 
cheek  and  then  on  the  other.  The  Captain's  head 
rattled  with  the  blows,  as  though  it  had  been  a  drum, 


OCTOBER  307 

and  a  trickle  of  blood  commenced  to  flow  from  a  gash 
made  by  one  of  Mrs.  Mallow's  rings. 

With  the  exception  of  the  livid  marks  left  by  the 
blows,  the  Captain's  face  became  deathly  pale. 

"Julia "  he  began,  sobered  by  the  shock,  but 

Mrs.  Mallow  checked  him. 

"  Don't  dare  to  utter  my  name ! "  she  flung  at  the 
cowering  and  degraded  man.  "  Never  speak  to  me 
again.  I've  done  with  you — you  are  a  coward  and  a 
brute,  who  would  bully  a  woman  till  she  turns  to  bay, 
and  then  crawl  to  her.  You've  never  cared  a  scrap 
about  my  reputation,  or  my  happiness.  All  you  have 
thought  of  has  been  yourself.  My  being  with  you 
here  to-night  hasn't  prevented  your  making  a 
thorough  beast  of  yourself,  although  by  creating  a 
disgraceful  scene  you  risked  exposing  me  to  insult 
and  publicity.  You  have  been  anxious  to  get  rid  of 
me  ever  since  you  had  got  everything  out  of  me  you 
wanted.  But  now  you  shan't  have  the  chance  of 
throwing  me  over.  I  discard  you  myself  forever.  I 
think  you're  the  most  contemptible  creature  I  have 
ever  known." 

Under  the  force  of  this  indictment,  the  Captain 
literally  crumpled  up.  If  he  had  been  an  unpleasant 
sight  when  we  first  entered  the  box,  he  was  worse  now 
with  his  manhood  oozed  out  of  him,  his  clothes  in 
disarray,  his  hair  tangled  and  matted,  the  perspiration 
streaming  from  his  forehead,  his  face  discolored  and 
bleeding,  debauchery  and  stricken  pride  combining 
to  produce  a  spectacle  for  gods  and  men  to  stand 
aghast  at. 

The  manager's  knowledge  of  human  nature  told  him 
that  he  would  have  no  more  trouble  over  the  unsettled 
account,  and  he  withdrew.  We  were  proceeding  to 


308  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

do  likewise,  when  a  word  from  Mrs.  Ponting-Mallow 
stayed  me. 

"  I  am  deeply  pained,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  we  were 
alone,  in  exhausted  tones  that  showed  the  crisis 
through  which  she  had  passed,  "that  you  and  your 
friend  should  have  witnessed  such  a  scene,  but  I  know 
I  can  rely  absolutely  on  your  discretion." 

"  Of  course,"  I  replied,  taking  the  lady's  opera  cloak 
from  its  peg,  as  a  hint  of  what  o'clock  it  was.  "  I 
shall  equally  contradict  any  rumors  I  may  hear." 

"  Rumors  ?  "  and  Mrs.  Mallow  paused  in  the  act  of 
drawing  on  her  cloak. 

"Well,  people  have  been  talking — perhaps  natu- 
rally!" 

Mrs.  Mallow  came  close  to  me.  It  was  strange  how 
we  both  ignored  the  man  in  the  corner. 

"  Mr.  Hanbury,"  she  asked,  "  what  sort  of  rumors 
were  they  ?  " 

"Well,  unpleasant.  Charity,  you  know,  begins  at 
home,  and  usually  stays  there." 

Mrs.  Mallow  frowned. 

"  You  saw  me  with  that "  she  failed  to  frame  a 

phrase  suitable  to  the  object  huddled  up  on  the  table — 
"  once  before.  I've  been  a  silly  little  fool,  if  not 
worse.  Oh  yes,  I  have,"  she  went  on,  as  I  made  a 
feeble  gesture  of  protest.  "  But  I've  learned  my  les- 
son to-night.  I've  got  a  comfortable  home,  and  how 
many  women  can  say  that  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mallow  shuddered — at  the  idea,  possibly,  of 
what  she  had  so  nearly  lost.  She  recovered  herself 
with  an  effort.  "Will  you  take  me  to  a  cab,  Mr. 
Hanbury?  "  she  asked. 

So  I  led  the  lady  through  the  dim  restaurant,  look- 
ing, with  its  lights  extinguished  and  its  laughter  fled, 


OCTOBER  309 

like  the  shameful  specter  of  a  once  beautiful  woman, 
and  saw  her  into  a  hansom.  What  became  of  Captain 
Rowan  we  neither  of  us  cared  a  rap ! 

"  Home  ?  "  I  asked,  as  the  cabman  waited  for  direc- 
tions. 

In  spite  of  the  evening's  experiences  Mrs.  Mallow 
smiled. 

"  Yes,  home ! "  she  replied. 

After  all,  a  humdrum  ending  to  "  Romance  "  is  the 
best. 


NOVEMBER 


Whoso  findeth  a  wife,  findeth  a  good  thing." — Book  of  Prov- 
erbs. 


NOVEMBER 

Steward  tells  an  old   Tale — Cynthia  Cochrane  says 
Good-by — Back  to  Fleet  Street — Two  in  a  Fog 

WHAT  is  love?"  is  a  question  I  Have  been 
putting  to  my  friends  of  late,  in  a  sincere  de- 
sire for  enlightenment,  to  be  so  inundated  with  con- 
flicting definitions  as  a  result  that  I  despair  of  ever 
getting  at  the  truth.  One  would  have  thought  that  a 
complaint  which  is  at  least  as  common  as  the  measles 
would  have  been  diagnosed  correctly  by  this  time,  but 
apparently  that  is  not  so,  and  I  am  still  floundering 
in  a  quagmire  of  doubt.  For  instance,  love  according 
to  George  Burn  is  "  a  sensation  of  hot  water  running 
down  one's  back."  That  sounds  too  much  like  a 
shower  bath  for  my  tastes. — To  my  sister  Dulcie  love 
is  "  forgetfulness  of  self  in  another's  happiness,"  a 
beautiful  saying,  though  a  hard  one — too  hard  for  a 
selfish  man.  To  Sybil  Bellew  love  means  marriage, 
and  marriage  means — all  that  marriage  means  to 
"  two-and-twenty." — Lady  Fullard,  to  whom  I  sub- 
mitted my  question  in  fear  and  trembling,  said  that 
"  love  is  all  stuff  and  nonsense ;  mutual  esteem  is  the 
only  thing  worth  having."  Somehow  that  reassured 
me,  because  if  Lady  Fullard  had  believed  in  love,  I 
should  have  preferred  to  remain  a  skeptic  on  the  sub- 
ject. More  helpful  was  Haines*  theory  that  the 
symptoms  of  being  in  love  were  a  willingness  to  give 
up  week-end  shoots  and  cigars  and  aversion  to  musical 
comedies.  But  he  wound  up  his  lecture  with  the  ab- 

313 


TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

surd  remark  that  "  the  proof  of  the  pudding  is  in  the 
eating."  Of  course  it  is,  but,  as  I  told  the  idiot,  "  the 
rot  is  that  if  one  takes  a  single  spoonful  one's  got  to 
finish  the  dish,  whether  one  likes  it  or  not."  Some 
day,  perhaps,  the  ten  years'  trial  trips  may  come  into 
fashion,  but  at  present  the  weight  of  public  opinion 
is  in  favor  of  the  retention  of  the  old-fashioned  matri- 
mony, with  its  "  no  jack-pot "  and  all  in  the  "  ante." 

I  have  come  back  from  my  Socratic  pilgrimage  little 
wiser  than  I  set  out.  Still  it  has  been  worth  while,  if 
only  as  a  revelation  of  my  friends'  points  of  view,  and 
for  the  eliciting  from  Steward  of  the  following: 

"  Love  was  given  to  Adam  to  create  a  new  Paradise 
for  himself.  Love  is  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity — Faith 
in  the  present,  Hope  for  the  future,  and  Charity  for 
all  time." 

I  had  been  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire  in  his  Chancery 
Lane  rooms,  while  the  shadows  gathered  thickly 
around,  when  the  journalist,  fondly  polishing  a  meer- 
schaum pipe,  had  delivered  himself  of  that  fine 
aphorism. 

"  Steward,"  I  said,  "  you  speak  with  the  accent  of  a 
lover." 

The  journalist's  face,  turned  to  the  glowing  hearth, 
was  twisted  by  a  sudden  spasm.  As  I  caught  the 
change  I  marveled  why  I  had  regarded  my  friend  as 
a  misogynist,  who  had  never  strayed  out  of  Fleet 
Street,  and  whose  years  had  been  dedicated  to  "  copy  " 
and  proof-sheets.  More,  I  realized  that  I  had  been 
singularly  incurious  as  to  the  details  of  his  past  career, 
apart  from  its  newspaper  side.  Steward's  reticence 
about  himself  had  not  been  encouraging  to  would-be 
Boswells.  It  had  been  only  natural  to  accept  the  man 
at  his  own  estimate,  and  he  had  been  at  pains  to  de- 


NOVEMBER  315 

scribe  his  life  as  consecrated  to  literature.  It  would, 
indeed,  be  a  bold  act  to  penetrate  into  the  secret  places 
of  his  heart,  and  pry  behind  the  veil  hung  before  its 
Holy  of  Holies,  since  Steward,  if  he  invited  confi- 
dences, never  reposed  them. 

Such  were  my  reflections  when  the  silence  enfolding 
us  was  of  a  sudden  pierced  by  the  still  small  voice 
with  which  soul  speaks  to  soul,  and  I  became  aware 
that  my  chance  remark  had  opened  some  floodgate  of 
memory  in  the  other,  and  that  the  roaring  of  deep 
waters  filled  his  ears.  The  shadows  which  danced  on 
walls  and  ceiling  in  a  flickering  fantasy,  and  threw 
even  such  familiar  objects  as  the  fighting  cocks  on  the 
piano  into  strange  relief,  might  have  been  ghosts 
returned  to  haunt  the  living,  so  plain  was  the  look 
of  anguish  Steward  wore,  and  the  lines  of  pain  drawn 
round  his  mouth.  Of  a  truth  I  knew  in  that  moment 
that  the  past  can  never  die,  that  what  has  been  will  be 
again,  and  the  things  a  man  has  once  suffered  he  must 
still  endure. 

As  I  watched  Steward  with  the  absorption  one  turns 
on  a  dying  man,  his  expression  softened,  his  forehead 
smoothed  as  under  the  pressure  of  a  woman's  hand, 
and,  still  searching  the  mysterious  depths  of  the  coals, 
he  began  very  softly  to  recite  these  poignant  verses: 

"La  vie  est  vaing; 
Un  peu  d'amour, 
Un  peu  de  haine — 
Et  puis,  bonjourt  ...„• 

"La  vie  est  breve; 

Un  peu  d^espoir, 
Un  peu  de  reve, 
Et  puis,  bonsoirt " 

Steward  broke  the  fixity  of  his  gaze,  an3  commence'd 


316  TOO  MANY   WOMEN 

filling  his  pipe,  which,  during  his  reverie,  had  fallen 
neglected  to  the  floor. 

"  Shadows,  shadows,  that's  what  we  are !  "  he  mur- 
mured, half  to  himself,  half  to  me.  "  Moths  fluttering 
for  a  few  brief  moments  round  the  lamp  of  life,  our 
most  lasting  thoughts  transitory,  our  deepest  feelings 
shallow;  the  beauty  of  to-day  but  the  skeleton  of  to- 
morrow; our  separate  existences  of  no  more  account 
than  the  paper  boats  launched  by  little  boys  on  the 
river  current,  doomed  to  be  overwhelmed  in  the  first 
eddy  they  encounter.  Why  should  a  man  tear  out 
his  heart  over  love,  when,  like  any  other  mortal  pas- 
sion, it  is  only  a  flower  to  be  tended  for  a  little  while 
before  it  fades?" 

"  What  has  come  over  you  ? "  I  asked  in  astonish- 
ment. "  You  spoke  very  differently  a  few  moments 
ago.  To  love,  then,  was  to  create  an  earthly  Para- 
dise." 

"Did  I  say  that?"  replied  Steward  in  a  far-away 
voice.  "  I  must  have  been  thinking  of  Elise." 

Elise  ? — The  world  was  coming  to  an  end  if  Steward 
could  grow  sentimental. 

A  jet  of  smoke  shot  from  the  journalist's  mouth  as 
his  pipe  sprang  alight 

"  Hanbury !  "  he  said.  "  Forgive  the  indiscretion 
I  am  about  to  commit,  of  talking  about  myself.  But 
my  intuition  tells  me  you  have  reached  the  parting  of 
the  ways,  and  that  your  future  depends  on  the  choice 
you  are  about  to  make.  Before  you  finally  decide, 
listen  to  the  words  of  a  man  who,  to  his  everlasting 
sorrow,  took  the  wrong  turning." 

I  felt  myself  incapable  of  making  any  coherent 
reply.  Steward  proceeded  with  his  strange  candor. 

"  Everybody  is  given  one  chance  in  this  world  of 


NOVEMBER  817 

obtaining  their  heart's  desire.  I  th'rew  away  my 
chance  when  I  lost  Elise.  No  triumphs  I  may  achieve 
in  my  profession,  no  heights  of  society  or  fame  I  can 
scale,  will  ever  atone  for  'il  gran  rifuto,'  as  Dante 
called  it.  If  the  Florentine  be  right,  and  there  exists 
a  frozen  hell  for  such  sinners  as  have  offended  against 
themselves,  I  shall  surely  go  there.  For  when  I  was 
offered  love — so  strong  that  the  grave  itself  could  have 
had  no  power  over  it,  I  spurned  it.  I  only  realized 
what  I  had  lost  when  She  had  passed  out  of  my  reach 
forever." 

"Did  death  take  Her  from  you?"  I  asked,  with  a 
reverence  that  befitted  the  other's  tragedy. 

"  If  it  had,  I  should  have  been  spared  the  remorse 
that  torments  me,"  replied  Steward,  his  face  contract- 
ing with  an  agony  of  recollection.  "No,  I  blame 
nobody  but  myself — and  Paris,"  he  added,  apportion- 
ing the  guilt  with  a  judicial  accuracy. 

"  Love  is  the  raison  d'etre  of  Paris,"  Steward  went 
on,  at  an  apparent  tangent  of  ideas.  "The  life  of  a 
Parisian  is  a  prolonged  intrigue,  one  long  affair  of 
gallantry.  He  thinks  of  nothing  else.  Yet  a  born 
critic,  he  is  compelled  to  analyze  even  a  woman's 
heart;  a  profound  skeptic,  he  doubts  the  permanence, 
or  indeed  the  reality,  of  love.  Having  no  illusions, 
he  can  have  no  faith.  It  was  my  curse  that  I  met 
Elise  in  this  atmosphere,  when  I  was  a  special  corre- 
spondent to  the  Exhibition." 

"  But  you  weren't  a  Parisian,"  I  interrupted.  "  So 
it  didn't  matter  what  Parisians  thought,  or  how  they 
behaved." 

Steward  smiled  grimly. 

"  Paris  doesn't  let  the  artistic  temperament  off  as 
easily  as  that.  By  her  appeal  to  one's  sense  of  all 


318  TOO  MANY   WOMEN 

that  is  beautiful  in  literature  and  art,  by  Her  rapture 
in  living  for  living's  sake,  by  the  whispered  entice- 
ments to  Youth  that  stir  in  the  plane-trees  of  her 
boulevards,  and  the  fountains  of  her  parks  and  gar- 
dens, by  her  gray  stones  and  hoary  traditions,  by  her 
joys  and  sorrows,  Paris  speaks  to  the  artist  as  no  other 
city.  Mother  and  mistress,  she  demands  the  affection 
meet  for  both.  I  showed  my  gratitude  to  her  in  the 
only  way  I  could.  I  became  more  Parisian  than  the 
Parisians,  discarding  my  English  modes  of  thought 
as  completely  as  though  they  had  never  existed.  My 
mind  had  always  been  keen  to  see  through  folly 
and  vice;  it  now  saw  through  virtue.  It  was  when 
thus  transformed  that  one  morning  in  the  Bois  I 
rested  on  the  same  seat  as  Elise,  and  our  delight  in 
the  glorious  July  weather  was  so  mutual  and  spon- 
taneous that  we  walked  together,  the  girl  becoming 
my  guest  for  dejeuner  at  the  Cascades." 
"  What  was  she  ?  "  I  asked.  "  A  grisette  ?  " 
"  She  had  been  a  governess  in  Touraine,  and  had 
returned  to  Paris  to  secure  another  situation.  As  far 
as  I  could  discover  she  had  no  parentage  worth  speak- 
ing of.  A  Captain  of  Chasseurs  had  some  claim  to 
be  her  father,  but  Elise  never  could  tell  me  the  rights 
of  the  matter.  My  private  belief  is  that  she  had 
dropped  from  a  nest,  and  assumed  human  shape  the 
moment  before  I  came  up,  for  she  had  the  bright 
black  eyes  of  a  bird,  the  same  quick  movement  of  the 
head,  and  was  vivacity  itself.  But  I  never  bothered 
much  about  the  question.  Elise  was  created  to  make 
others  happy,  and  herself  miserable.  She  had  the 
amazing  intuition  of  the  Parisian  for  every  mood  of 
her  companion,  and  as  she  was  a  dozen  women  rolled 
into  one,  she  could  assume  a  fresh  personality  to  suit 


NOVEMBER  819 

the  occasion.  She  could  be  obdurate,  melting,  unap- 
proachable, intimate,  witty,  provoking,  and  all  in  the 
hour.  Her  society  was  stimulating  for  the  reason  that 
one  never  knew  whether  her  greeting  would  be  an 
embrace  or  a  repulse,  sunny  smiles  or  floods  of  tears. 
Take  her  in  one's  arms,  and  she  might  prove  to  be  a 
shy  wood  nymph,  or  a  Bacchanal." 

"  You  loved  her,  of  course ! "  I  interrupted,  rather 
fatuously. 

"  I  never  had  time  to,"  replied  Steward,  lighting  a 
fresh  pipe,  "so  occupied  was  I  in  studying  Elise,  in- 
voking the  various  spirits  which  possessed  her.  She 
was  interested  in  everything,  and  I  gave  her  the  best 
that  was  in  me  to  satisfy  her  craving  for  information 
and  knowledge.  She  was  a  harp  on  the  strings  of 
which  I  played  the  most  exquisite  melodies  that  ever 
ravished  the  souls  of  a  man  and  a  woman.  And  how 
I  wrote  in  those  days!  Heavens,  how  I  wrote  while 
Elise' s  spell  was  over  me!  My  articles  on  the  Exhi- 
bition were  a  revelation  to  London,  and  the  propri- 
etors of  the  paper  doubled  my  salary.  Two  stories  I 
found  time  to  do  went  far  to  establishing  my  reputa- 
tion as  a  man  of  letters.  My  contemporaries  were 
sinking  into  my  train.  In  my  pride  I  thought  I  could 
do  without  Elise,  that  it  was  myself,  unaided,  who  had 
done  these  things.  But  the  Artist,  Hanbury,  can 
never  stand  alone.  He  must  receive  inspiration  from 
some  source,  and  the  higher  and  purer  the  source  is 
the  better  it  will  be  for  him." 

"  But,  surely,"  I  said  in  genuine  surprise,  "  even 
from  your  own  showing,  Elise  wasn't  conspicuous  for 
virtue?" 

Steward's  look  darkened. 

"  Don't  make  the  mistake  of  ignorant  people,  Han- 


320  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

bury,  and  apply  terms  like  virtue  and  sin  universally. 
In  England,  so  long  as  one  keeps  the  Seventh  Com- 
mandment, and  incidentally  attends  the  Established 
Church,  one  may  break  all  the  others  with  impunity. 
Yet  there  are  countries  just  as  much  deserving  to  be 
called  virtuous  as  ours,  where  everybody  goes  about 
stark  naked,  and  a  woman  thinks  nothing  of  six  hus- 
bands. Elise,  like  her  countryfolk,  was  no  hypocrite. 
She  was  a  pagan,  responsive  to  every  natural  instinct, 
and  worshipping  the  beautiful.  The  pinnacles  of 
Notre  Dame,  the  curve  of  the  Seine  of  Sevres,  the 
Petit  Trianon,  the  view  over  Paris  from  the  Church  of 
the  Sacred  Heart  on  Montmartre,  the  music  of  Tris- 
tan, the  prose  of  Pierre  Loti  and  Anatole  France,  the 
romances  of  Dumas  and  Balzac,  the  poetry  of  Hugo 
and  De  Musset, — Elise  loved  them  all,  with  an  ap- 
preciation that  often  wrung  tears  from  her.  I  under- 
stood Elise.  From  me  she  drew  silence,  or  conversa- 
tion, attention  or  indifference,  as  she  had  need  of  them. 
And  because  I  understood  her  she  loved  me.  Yet  it 
was  more  than  that.  She  felt  that  I  required  her,  that 
to  turn  to  her  for  sympathy,  companionship,  was  a 
craving  which  took  a  firmer  hold  on  my  nature  with 
each  meeting.  The  divine  motherhood  flowing  from 
a  woman  toward  a  man — precious  ointment  with 
which  she  would  anoint  his  head — the  comprehension 
of  the  strength  and  weakness  of  which  he  is  com- 
pounded, impelled  Elise  to  give  me  all  that  she  had 
to  give.  I  took  it — to  learn  the  greatness  of  the  gift 
too  late." 

Steward's  masterly  analysis  of  a  woman's  soul,  the 
subtle  inflections  of  speech  with  which  he  etched  in  the 
lights  and  shades  of  his  word-picture,  the  stress  of 
mind  which  had  led  him  to  the  confessional^  had 


NOVEMBER  321 

drawn  me  under  the  spell  which  Elise  had  woven — 
to  his  undoing  and  hers.  My  heart  beat  fast  in  an- 
ticipation of  human  blindness  and  error  parting  what 
God  had  joined;  my  temples  throbbed  with  a  pre- 
monition of  woe.  Steward  was  stretching  me  on  the 
rack  of  his  own  agony,  gagged  by  emotion  and  in- 
capable of  uttering  a  word  to  break  the  narrative, 
which  continued  its  course. 

"  Paris  looks  upon  women  as  playthings,  insepa- 
rable adjuncts  of  Man,  who  is  the  sun  around  which 
they  must  revolve — playthings  to  be  discarded  and 
adopted  again  at  will,  petted  and  deserted  by  turns. 
The  menage  a  trois  with  which  the  theaters  deal  eter- 
nally mocks  the  fidelity  of  the  sex,  exalts  feminine 
treachery  into  a  cult.  In  this  environment  Elise's 
sacrifice,  which  should  have  convinced  me  of  her  de- 
votion to  myself,  merely  confirmed  my  acceptance  of 
the  warped  views  I  heard  enunciated  on  all  sides.  I 
thought  Elise  without  a  soul.  At  the  cost  of  the  happi- 
ness of  both  of  us  she  proved  to  me  she  possessed 
one." 

The  speaker's  voice  died  away  for  a  moment,  and 
his  face  was  hidden  in  his  hands.  When  Steward 
resumed  it  was  with  an  obvious  effort. 

"  With  a  truly  masculine  confidence  in  my  power 
to  retain  Elise's  affections,  I  grew  casual  in  my  treat- 
ment of  her,  prolonged  my  absences,  frequented  the 
society  of  other  and  less  reputable  women,  proved  by 
my  conduct  that  I  accepted  the  code  of  Parisian  gal- 
lantry without  reserve.  Success  had  gone  to  my  head. 
Had  misfortunes  come  to  me  I  should  have  flown, 
like  a  homing  pigeon,  to  Elise's  arms,  but  destiny,  to 
teach  me  a  lesson,  refused  to  allow  a  single  failure  to 
cloud  my  horizon.  Then  it  was  that  one  night  return- 


TOO   MANY  WOMEN 

ing  late  to  my  apartment,  I  found  a  letter  pinned  on  to 
the  mantel  to  catch  my  eye.  It  was  Elise's  farewell. 
I  still  keep  it!" 

Steward  broke  the  thread  of  his  narrative  to  go  to 
an  inlaid  cabinet  that  stood  by  the  window,  open  a 
drawer  and  extract  with  much  fumbling  an  envelope, 
with  which  he  returned  to  his  place.  Drawing  the 
contents  forth,  the  journalist  read  the  following, 
screening  his  eyes  the  while : 

"  MY  DEAREST  FRIEND  : 

"  I  say  good-by  to  you  with  tears  that  will  never 
cease  to  flow  for  the  sorrow  of  our  separation.  But 
it  is  far  better  that  you  should  weep  for  Elise  departed, 
caring  for  her,  perhaps  a  little,  and  pitying  her  much, 
than  that,  having  her  by  your  side,  you  should  think 
lightly  of  her. 

"  From  the  happiness  that  living  with  you  has 
brought  me,  I  know  the  sadness  which  life  without  you 
holds,  but  if,  by  renouncing  you,  I  can  prove  to  you 
the  sincerity  of  my  love,  I  renounce  you  gladly.  For 
I  do  love  you,  with  a  passion  that  thinks  nothing  a 
sacrifice  which  can  minister  to  your  happiness.  I  am 
leaving  you,  and  with  you  my  heart,  so  that  you  may 
keep  the  memory  of  our  affection — for  you  do  love 
me,  little  though  you  may  suspect  it — pure  and  un- 
stained, a  memory  unsullied  by  thoughts  of  Elise's 
frailty  and  your  own  folly  in  wasting  your  talents  on 
a  light  woman. 

"  We  shall  never  meet  again  in  this  world.  If  God 
is  good  I  may  see  you  hereafter.  My  prayers  shall 
win  Paradise  for  us  both. 

"Farewell,  beloved, 


NOVEMBER!  323 

The  end  was  reached  in  faltering  accents,  but,  be- 
yond a  slight  trembling  of  the  hand  which  held  the 
paper,  Steward  repressed  all  outward  expression  of 
grief.  Forbearing  to  profane  the  moment  with  speech, 
I  reached  over  and  drew  the  sheet  from  my  friend's 
fingers.  Written  in  French  in  small,  precise  char- 
acters, the  letter  conjured  up  a  vision  of  that  far-away 
night  in  Paris,  when  the  man  by  my  side  was  made 
conscious  how  he  had  flung  away  the  pearl  of  great 
price.  The  thin  sheets  of  violet-tinted  paper,  now 
faded  almost  white,  still  exhaled  the  perfume  of  the 
writer,  recalling  the  gracious  presence  of  a  good 
woman.  I  cast  a  glance  at  the  man  whose  life,  ap- 
parently so  full,  was  so  empty,  whose  career,  so  envi- 
able, was  robbed  of  the  one  prize  which  could  make 
success  worth  acquiring. 

It  was  a  full  five  minutes  before  the  silence  in  the 
room  was  broken. 

"I  believe  Elise  was  right,"  Steward  said  at  last, 
once  more  in  command  of  himself.  "  Her  instinct 
told  her  I  should  remain  faithful  to  her  forever,  and 
that,  while  losing  me  in  this  world,  she  would  possess 
me  in  the  next.  My  heart  is  a  shrine  to  her  memory, 
wreathed  with  immortelles.  No  other  woman  will 
ever  enter  it.  But  Elise  did  a  greater  thing  for  me 
by  giving  me  back  my  faith  in  her  sex.  And  that  is 
the  moral  of  my  long  tale,  Hanbury.  Don't  try  to 
analyze  women ;  love  them  for  what  they  are !  Don't 
pick  them  to  pieces  as  you  would  a  toy,  for  you  can 
never  put  them  together  again!  Destroy  a  woman's 
faith  in  you,  and  her  soul  shall  cry  out  against  you 
at  the  Judgment  Seat,  and  condemn  you !  If  you  are 
a  cynic,  never  let  your  cynicism  extend  to  Woman. 
For  as  it  was  a  woman  who  brought  you  into  the 


TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

world,  so  pray  that  a  woman's  consolation  may  lead 
you  gently  out  of  it ! " 

I  left  Steward  with  Elise's  letter  clenched  in  his 
hand. 

Vanity  of  vanities — all  is  vanity  save  the  love  of  a 
man  for  a  maid,  and  the  love  of  a  maid  for  a  man ! 

Nothing  less  than  the  strictest  sense  of  obligation 
to  Cynthia  Cochrane  would  have  taken  me,  after 
Steward's  solemn  warning,  to  Covent  Garden  Ball  on 
the  following  Friday.  Only  the  compulsion  of  strong 
friendship  could  have  induced  so  reticent  a  man  as 
the  journalist  to  impart  the  secret  of  his  lost  Elise  with 
the  object  of  hastening  my  plunge  into  matrimony. 
But  by  going  to  a  Covent  Garden  Ball  at  Cynthia's 
invitation  I  was  entrusting  myself  to  influences  de- 
cidedly anti-matrimonial,  Cynthia  because  she  was 
Cynthia,  and  the  Ball  because  it  stood  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  scale  to  marriage. 

Covent  Garden  Ball  is  the  one  public  function 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  United 
Kingdom  to  which  Mrs.  Grundy  is  refused  admit- 
tance. If  she  so  much  as  shows  her  nose  under  the 
facade  of  the  Royal  Opera  House  on  such  an  occa- 
sion, she  is  taken  in  charge  by  the  constables  on  duty 
for  causing  a  nuisance.  Last  time  she  appeared  at 
Bow  Street  she  was  fined  £5  by  the  presiding  magis- 
trate. Therefore,  once  upon  a  time  I  used  to  be  a 
regular  attendant  at  the  fortnightly  fetes,  but  as  cares 
have  accumulated,  and  my  habits  grown  more  regular, 
I  have  been  less  and  less,  till  now  it  is  only  imperative 
necessity  which  mulcts  me  of  a  guinea  and  half  my 
night's  rest. 

On  the  particular  evening  when  Cynthia  had  com- 


NOVEMBER  825 

manded  my  presence  in  order  to  stave  off  the  ardent 
attentions  of  James  Berners,  Esq.,  Solicitor,  I  had 
intended  dining  quietly  at  the  club,  finishing  a  long- 
overdue  article  on  "Kings  I  have  never  met,"  com- 
missioned by  The  Penguin,  and  looking  in  at  the 
Ball  about  I  A.  M.  But  George  Burn  scented  mischief 
from  my  mysterious  demeanor,  drew  my  destination 
from  me,  and  enrolled  himself  in  the  expedition.  One 
can't  say  "  No  "  to  George  with  any  effect,  so  I  con- 
sented, and  borrowed  my  entrance  money  off  him  as  a 
forfeit. 

As  we  ascended  the  staircase  from  the  underground 
buffet  level  to  the  polished  floor  laid  over  what,  in  the 
opera  season,  is  the  stalls,  we  were  assailed  by  the 
blare  of  Dan  Godfrey's  orchestra,  and  a  rush  of  warm 
scented  air  from  the  house,  crowded  in  every  part — 
even  the  top  gallery,  reserved  for  spectators  from  the 
everyday  world,  being  ringed  round  with  a  fringe  of 
eager  faces  staring  in  amazement  on  the  motley  throng 
below.  George  and  I  thrust  our  way  to  a  conspicuous 
position  on  the  partition  separating  the  promenade 
from  the  parquet,  with  no  more  mischance  than  the 
upsetting  of  a  buxom  lady  whose  partner  was  remedy- 
ing his  ignorance  of  the  waltz  steps  by  a  praiseworthy 
attempt  at  an  Apache  dance  which  involved  seizing 
the  fair  one  by  the  neck  at  intervals — none  of  them 
very  lucid.  Freed  from  this  entanglement,  we  both 
surveyed  the  gay  scene  with  interest. 

Most  of  the  ladies  present  thought  that  if  their 
skirts  stopped  short  at  the  knees  they  had  done  enough 
in  the  way  of  disguise.  Of  the  so-called  fancy  cos- 
tumes— a  compromise  between  allegory  and  realism — I 
was  inclined  to  award  the  palm  to  a  svelte  blonde 
whose  petticoat  of  gauze  net  trimmed  with  bivalves, 


326  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

and  headdress  of  kippers,  represented  "  Caller  Her- 
rin',"  although  George  was  strongly  in  favor  of  a 
charmer  in  heliotrope  tights  slashed  with  orange, 
green  and  scarlet,  her  bust  draped  in  a  tasseled  cloak 
of  gray  panne.  A  great  many  men  one  knew  seemed 
to  be  enjoying  the  "light  fantastic"  after  a  debauch 
of  covert  shooting  and  domesticity,  and  George  was 
kept  busy  returning  the  salutes  of  both  sexes  as  they 
whirled  past  in  revelry. 

It  is  an  easier  task  to  discover  the  proverbial  needle 
in  the  haystack  than  to  keep  an  assignation  at  Covent 
Garden,  and  I  had  given  up  all  expectation  of  finding 
Cynthia  when,  happening  to  raise  my  eyes  to  the 
grand  tier  boxes,  I  suddenly  saw  a  "mask"  seated 
by  the  individual  whose  ancestors  had  obviously 
crossed  the  Red  Sea  with  Moses.  George  had  already 
gone  buccaneering  on  his  own  account,  so  I  made  my 
way  with  all  speed  through  the  mass  of  spectators  to 
the  box  and  its  occupants. 

Cynthia,  disguised  in  a  black  satin  loup  and  a 
domino,  received  me  with  an  enthusiasm  not  shared 
by  Jimmy  Berners.  He  had  taken  the  box  for  him- 
self and  Cynthia,  and  he  didn't  want  to  be  disturbed. 
The  disfavor  with  which  he  eyed  me  told  me  as  much. 
But  disturbed  he  had  to  be,  and  to  a  distance  out  of 
hearing. 

"Berners,"  I  said,  ignoring  his  hostility,  "there's 
a  pretty  little  woman  in  black  and  red  by  the  buffet 
on  the  right  of  the  band  asking  after  you." 

"  A  little  woman  in  black  and  red  ?  "  repeated  Ber- 
ners, his  anger  forgotten  at  the  pleasant  fabrication. 
It  was  the  ambition  of  his  life  to  procure  the  reputation 
of  a  lady-killer,  partly  from  the  abstract  delight  he 
himself  would  derive  from  the  title,  and  from  the 


NOVEMBER  327 

added  worth  he  imagined  it  would  invest  him  with  in 
Cynthia  Cochrane's  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  a  little  ripper.  I  had  half  a 
mind  to  forestall  you,  you  dog !  You  sly  dog ! "  and 
I  poked  Berners  in  the  ribs. 

"  Quick's  the  word,"  I  went  on,  so  soon  as  he  had 
recovered,  "  before  somebody  else  snaps  her  up.  She 
was  going  to  the  supper-room." 

"Did  she  mention  her  name?"  asked  the  duped 
Berners,  in  a  gallant  pretense  of  knowing  it  all  the 
time. 

"'Tell  Mr.  Berners  that  Maudie  wants  him;  he'll 
know/  That  was  all  the  message  I  got." 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  Cochrane,"  apologized  Berners, 
fingering  the  door  handle.  "  I  must  just  see  the  lady 
for  a  minute." 

"  If  he  sees  the  lady  for  a  second,"  I  said  as  the  door 
closed  on  Berners,  "  he's  got  better  sight  than  I  have." 

"  Poor  Jimmy,"  said  Cynthia  Cochrane,  who  had 
sat  an  amused  spectator  of  the  comedy.  "  It's  a  shame 
to  tease  him  so.  But  he  really  must  take  lessons  in 
conversation.  He's  already  asked  me  twice  to-night 
to  marry  him.  I  had  to  tell  him  I  had  come  here  to 
enjoy  myself." 

I  thought  of  the  duty  that  had  brought  me  to  Covent 
Garden  Ball,  and  steeled  myself  for  the  deed. 

"Jimmy's  not  a  bad  sort,"  I  remarked,  as  uncon- 
cernedly as  I  could.  "  One  could  do  much  worse  than 
marry  him." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  advice  for  me,  Gerald  ?  " 

A  frill  of  lace  hid  the  expression  of  Cynthia's 
mouth  from  me,  but  I  caught  a  flash  of  indignant  eyes 
through  her  mask. 

I  evaded  a  direct  answer. 


TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

"  If  I  were  a  woman,  and  thought  a  man  cared  for 
me,  I'd  let  the  knowledge  weigh  down  a  good  many 
of  his  disadvantages." 

Cynthia  turned  her  head  away. 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk,  Gerald !  You  don't 
even  know  the  simplest  facts  about  a  woman.  Why, 
if  we  could  only  control  our  affections  like  that,  we 
should  certainly  be  spared  all  the  things  that  break  our 
hearts." 

"  I  seem  to  be  having  as  depressing  an  effect  on  you 
as  Jimmy,"  I  said,  with  an  effort  to  be  gay,  despite 
the  sadness  stealing  over  me  at  the  prospect,  very 
close  now,  of  parting  from  Cynthia.  "Cheer  up, 
there's  the  March  Past  beginning! " 

A  crowd  of  dancers  had  congregated  on  the  stage 
by  the  band-stand,  ready  to  pass  in  single  file  before 
the  judge's  box,  while  the  rest  of  the  company,  in 
fancy  dress  and  out,  were  being  marshaled  by  stew- 
ards along  a  length  of  rope  stretched  down  the  ball- 
room, to  keep  a  wide  passage  open,  order  being 
further  guaranteed  by  the  presence  of  an  inspector 
of  police  and  two  constables.  The  band  struck  up  a 
ragtime,  and  the  competitors  for  the  various  prizes 
offered  by  the  management  started  to  display  them- 
selves and  their  costumes  by  sidling  and  pirouetting 
down  the  line  of  spectators,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
cries  of  encouragement  or  derision,  according  as  the 
popular  verdict  wavered.  Ever  and  again  a  storm  of 
cheering  greeted  a  stage  favorite,  or  a  dress  of  un- 
usual originality  of  design,  studded  with  electric 
lights,  while  the  crowd  behind  kept  up  a  succession 
of  antics,  varying  from  a  display  of  high-kicking  to 
a  "  ring  a  ring  o'  roses  "  which  ended  in  the  partic- 
ipants collapsing  in  a  struggling  heap.  I  felt  as 


NOVEMBER  329 

though  I  should  like  to  join  the  fun,  instead  of 
moping  in  a  box  over  what  had  been,  and  could  be  no 
longer. 

All  of  a  sudden  I  became  aware  that  Cynthia  had 
removed  her  mask,  and,  instead  of  watching  the  mad 
scene,  was  intent  on  studying  my  face. 

"  Do  you  care  for  her  very  much  ?  "  she  said  at  last. 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  I  replied,  surprised  out  of  the  secret 
I  had  planned  to  reveal  in  quite  a  different  way. 

"  I  guessed  as  much,  Gerald,"  Cynthia  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  I  haven't  had  a  line  from  you  for  a  month, 
so  I  asked  you  here  to-night  to  find  out  what  was  the 
matter.  Your  manner  gave  you  away  straight  off. 
Well,  it's  good-by  this  time !  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  I  muttered.  My  idea  had  been 
to  bring  our  friendship  to  an  end  on  the  ground  of  her 
future,  but  this  seemed  to  be  reversing  the  process.  I 
felt  remarkably  uncomfortable.  But  if  I  expected  any 
reproaches  I  was  spared  them. 

"  The  very  best  luck  to  you,"  said  Cynthia.  "  You'll 
ask  me  to  the  wedding,  won't  you?  You  needn't  be 
frightened ;  I  shan't  come." 

"  You're  going  ahead  too  fast,"  I  replied,  with  a 
deep  relief.  "  I  haven't  got  to  the  engagement  yet. 
But,  of  course,  if  there's  a  wedding,  I  shall  want  you 
to  come,  and  feel  deeply  hurt  at  your  absence." 

Cynthia  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  Of  course,  if  I  came  to  the  wedding  you'd  be 
charming  to  me,  and  the  more  so  because  I  shouldn't 
be  '  in  the  picture.'  But  you'd  wonder  to  yourself, 
'Why  has  she  come?'  and  your  fashionable  friends 
would  stare  and  say,  '  An  actress ;  what  shocking  bad 
taste  of  her  to  turn  up,'  and  the  fat  would  be  in  the 
fire  about  your  bachelor  days  before  the  honeymoon 


330  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

had  properly  begun.  I  don't  want  to  come  to  the 
wedding." 

And  drawing  out  her  handkerchief,  Cynthia  dabbed 
her  eyes  with  it.  I  felt  uncommonly  like  following 
suit.  It  would  never  do  if  Jimmy  Berners  came  back 
and  found  us  both  in  tears. 

"Dear  Cynthia,"  I  said,  leaning  forward  to  where 
the  girl  sat  with  her  face  hidden  by  her  hands,  "  don't 
spoil  it  all  by  making  me  feel  I've  behaved  like  a 
brute.  Things  are  much  better  as  they  have  turned 
out,  for  I  should  only  have  destroyed  your  career. 
You've  got  a  big  one,  you  know  you  have ! " 

"Yes,  there's  always  my  career."  Cynthia's  voice 
shook  with  suppressed  emotion.  "But  a  career  to  a 
woman  isn't  the  same  satisfying  thing  it  is  to  a  man. 
With  her  it  is  never  independent  of  a  home  and  a 
husband.  She  wants  some  one  she  loves  to  share  it 
with." 

Overcome  by  her  emotion,  Cynthia  stopped.  A 
knock  came  at  the  door  of  the  box.  I  delayed  a 
second  in  raising  the  latch,  and  put  my  face  close  to 
Cynthia's. 

"  Cynthia,"  I  whispered.  "  You've  shown  me  what 
a  good  woman  is.  I'll  never,  never  forget  you." 

Then  I  gave  her  the  last  embrace  of  our  long  friend- 
ship. 

When  Jimmy  Berners  entered  a  moment  later  he 
found  her  departing. 

"Any  luck  with  Maudie?"  I  asked,  more  to  turn 
attention  from  Cynthia  than  anything  else. 

"You  got  that  all  wrong,"  said  Berners.  "Her 
name  was  Grace,"  and  he  sat  down  with  a  proprietary 
air. 

For  his  own  sake  I  hope  that  Jimmy  Berners  didn't 


NOVEMBER  331 

propose  to  Cynthia  Cochrane  for  a  third  time  that 
night. 

•  •  .  •  « 

The  unconventional  strain  in  my  blood  has  tri- 
umphed, and  I  have  gone  back  to  Fleet  Street.  In- 
stead of  the  club  and  its  luxury  of  exclusiveness, 
drawing-rooms  and  country  houses,  I  once  more  fre- 
quent the  Cock,  the  Cheshire  Cheese,  and  Wine  Office 
Court.  The  freemasonry  of  the  journalistic  world 
of  pressmen,  war  correspondents,  critics,  reviewers, 
authors  and  dramatists,  has  succeeded  that  of  Society, 
with  its  sportsmen,  idlers,  and  womankind.  To  me 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 
The  golden  years  return. 

From  the  moment  I  accepted  a  position  in  connec- 
tion with  the  Evening  Star's  new  magazine  and  literary 
page,  my  old  habits  and  mode  of  living  have  slipped 
from  me  as  though  they  had  never  been.  My  fate  no 
longer  hangs  on  the  cut  of  a  coat  or  the  folds  of  a 
scarf,  but  on  quickness  of  brain  and  sureness  of 
judgment.  A  servant  of  the  public,  with  a  roving 
commission  to  keep  it  supplied  three  times  a  week  with 
the  brightest  of  bright  articles,  I  am  immersed  in  the 
fascination  of  the  task.  When  I  am  in  search  of  a 
subject  to  deal  with,  nothing  escapes  my  observation. 
The  hanging  sign  of  a  beauty-specialist  at  once  sug- 
gests a  course  of  treatment,  and  "  A  Wrinkle  Doctor 
at  Work"  astonishes  the  metropolis  three  days  later. 
Another  time  it  is  "  The  Morals  of  the  Music  Hall,"  a 
week's  pilgrimage  from  the  "  Met "  to  the  Pavilion, 
and  an  animated  correspondence  in  the  Evening  Star 
started  by  myself  under  the  pseudonym  of  "A  Fre- 


332  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

quenter  of  the  Halls,"  and  the  limelight  turned  on 
Page  3  and  its  contents. 

Half  the  charm  of  journalism  is  the  sense  of  power 
it  gives.  Not  only  have  one's  words  a  quarter  of  a 
million  readers,  but  one  has  the  entree  everywhere, 
and  a  sight  of  the  chief  performers  on  the  world's 
stage  with  the  paint  off — as  they  really  are,  and  not 
as  fame  presents  them.  The  Actor-Manager  drops  the 
Olympian  manner  and,  over  a  cigar  in  his  dressing- 
room,  talks  affably  on  the  need  for  a  National  theater, 
and  "  Should  Bernard  Shaw  be  canonized  or  cre- 
mated?" The  Cabinet  Minister  gives  his  private,  as 
distinct  from  his  published,  views  on  "  My  Colleagues, 
and  what  I  think  of  them  " ;  the  dancer  of  the  moment 
describes  in  her  motor  brougham  "  Heads,  crowned 
and  otherwise,  I  have  turned  in  my  career."  The 
journalist  is  in  contact  with  the  new  ideas  of  the  age, 
sustained  through  the  wear  and  tear  of  his  profession, 
by  the  pleasing  sense  that  he  knows  more  than  his 
neighbors. 

The  successful  journalist  has  to  combine  the  quali- 
ties of  an  ambassador,  a  detective,  and  a  man  of 
letters.  He  must  be  urbane,  indomitable,  able  to  ex- 
tract the  secrets  of  other  people  without  divulging  his 
own,  prepared  to  bluff  every  one  from  his  news  editor 
to  the  village  policeman,  never  giving  up  a  mission 
till  he  has  a  column  of  news,  or  been  sandbagged 
by  the  victims  of  his  pertinacity  and  zeal.  He  must 
have  no  qualms  as  to  his  fitness  for  any  task  allotted 
him,  whether  it  be  the  unraveling  of  a  crime  which 
has  baffled  the  police,  and  the  securing,  single-handed, 
of  a  desperate  ruffian,  the  interviewing  of  a  Countess 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  or  the  description  of  a 
cross-Channel  swim  during  the  gale  of  the  century. 


NOVEMBER  333 

Carefully  removing  the  paper  guards  to  his  cuffs, 
cramming  into  his  pocket,  in  case  of  emergencies,  the 
remains  of  the  buttered  toast  he  has  been  eating,  and 
smoothing  his  tangled  hair  with  a  broken  comb  before 
two  inches  of  cracked  glass,  the  Pressman  receives 
last  instructions  from  his  news  editor,  and  plunges 
forth  into  the  fray.  Arriving  on  the  scene  of  his  as- 
signment, he  is  confronted  with  obstacle  after  obstacle 
set  in  the  way  of  his  procuring  the  information  he 
wants,  and  which  he  has  to  surmount  by  his  own 
initiative  and  resource.  To  ply  reluctant  folk  with 
a  string  of  questions,  to  be  ready  with  the  soft  answer 
that  turns  away  wrath,  to  climb  in  at  the  window  when 
the  door  is  closed,  to  mistake  the  servant's  "  No  "  for 
the  master's  "  Yes,"  to  goad  ignorant  people  into  in- 
telligence, and  coax  silent  ones  into  speech,  to  scatter 
largesse  in  the  hope  of  recouping  it  from  the  cashier, 
to  write  good  and  vivacious  English  after  six  hours' 
hard  labor — these  do  not  comprise  the  equipment  of 
Napoleon,  but  of  a  working  journalist. 

At  present  I  am  engaged  on  a  series  headed  "If 
London  became  French,"  forecasting  an  impossible 
future  to  the  Entente  Cordiale.  The  Evening  Star 
artists  are  preparing  a  picture  of  Regent  Street  lined 
with  cafes  and  kiosks,  and  sketching  our  public  men 
a  la  Franchise,  with  pince-nez,  beards,  and  the  Celtic 
fringe,  while  I  am  supplying  the  letterpress,  describ- 
ing how  Chelsea  turns  into  a  Latin  Quarter,  the  Royal 
Academicians  commit  suicide  in  a  body  because  of 
the  raising  of  the  national  ideals  of  Art,  the  London 
County  Council  steamers  pay  at  last,  fights  are  the 
order  of  the  day  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  a  Bal 
Tabarin  usurps  the  Albert  Hall.  In  addition,  the 
opinions  of  various  prominent  personages  are  being 


334  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

canvassed,  so  that  one  day's  number  may  be  devoted 
to  a  symposium  of  their  views  on  the  results,  beneficial 
or  otherwise,  of  such  a  surprising  change.  I  have 
been  at  great  pains  to  make  this  last  feature  as  com- 
plete as  possible,  and  in  many  cases  have  interviewed 
the  celebrities  myself. 

It  strikes  me  as  extraordinary  how  some  great  folk 
resent  being  asked  to  talk  for  publication.  In  this 
age  of  advertisement  the  attentions  of  the  Press  should 
be  encouraged  rather  than  repelled,  for  it  is  a  demon- 
strable fact  that  few  reputations  can  stand  without 
the  newspapers.  Yet  I  had  to  write  to  the  Duchess 
of  Surbiton  twice,  and  then  call  at  eleven  one  morning 
in  order,  when  I  finally  did  reach  her  presence,  to  be 
met  with  the  statement  from  her  Grace  that  the  only 
thing  we  could  with  advantage  copy  the  French  in 
was  their  cooking.  This  brusque  and  discourteous 
comment  is  going  into  print  in  this  form : 

Her  Grace  of  Surbiton  spared  our  representative  a 
few  minutes  from  her  busy  morning  of  arranging 
social  engagements  and  seeing  to  the  books  (for  the 
Duchess  is  a  model  housewife  and  keeps  Surbiton 
House  in  "  apple-pie  "  order)  to  discuss  the  subject  of 
our  article. 

"  How  well  I  remember,"  she  said,  toying  the  while 
with  a  tiny  spaniel  that  lay  in  her  ample  lap,  "  those 
dear,  delightful  times  in  Paris  when  I  was  a  girl !  " — 
here  the  ducal  bosom  heaved  with  regret  for  the  days 
that  were  gone — "the  omelette  aux  fines  herbes,  the 
ragouts,  the  volaille  supreme,  the  salads,  the  sauces, 
in  fact  the  whole  cuisine  of  La  Belle  France.  There 
were  chefs  in  those  days,  but  now !  " 

The  gracious  lady  shrugged  her  shoulders   (if  a 


NOVEMBER  335 

Duchess  can  have  anything  so  common  as  shoulders) 
with  one  of  the  expressive  gestures  caught  from  the 
Paris  of  her  youth. 

"We  have  nothing  like  the  cooking  in  England," 
went  on  her1  Grace.  "  If  I  had  my  way  every  Poly- 
technic" (who  will  say  that  our  Aristocracy  is  un- 
educated?) "every  Board  school,  would  include  cook- 
ery in  their  curriculum."  The  Duchess  safely 
negotiated  the  treacherous  word,  and  turned  to  our 
representative.  "  I'm  afraid  I  can  say  nothing  more. 
Surbiton"  (the  dear  Duke  Ed.)  "doesn't  like  the 
papers,  since  they  encourage  Socialism.  Ah !  I  see  my 
Secretary  is  waiting  for  me.  Good-morning!" 

With  a  kindly  smile  the  visitor  is  dismissed,  to  carry 
away  with  him  the  impression  of  a  great  lady,  stamped 
with  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere,  but  interested  in  other 
modes  of  thought  than  her  own,  and  carrying  her 
years  as  lightly  as  her  lineage  bears  the  centuries. 

There  are  coals  of  fire  heaped  on  her  Grace's 
toupee!  The  readers  of  the  Evening  Star  are  not 
going  to  be  deprived  of  the  news  which  is  their  due 
if  the  enterprise  of  the  staff  can  secure  it. 

But  I  can  trace  to  another  source  than  the  charm  of 
active  work  in  Fleet  Street  the  change  which  has  come 
over  my  outlook  upon  my  old  environment,  making  the 
round  of  club  and  restaurant,  of  scandal  and  sport, 
belong  to  a  shadowland,  peopled  with  phantoms,  un- 
concerned with  the  real  issues  of  humanity,  and  only 
toying  with  life.  It  is  true  that  I  had  become  sud- 
denly filled  with  a  vast  amazement  that  I  ever  expected 
anything  of  that  existence  save  ennui,  since  the  inter- 
ests were  so  portentiously  trivial,  the  ambitions  so 
warped,  and  truer  still  that  Miss  Audrey  Maitland  has 


336  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

effected  my  mental  transformation.  I  am  getting 
older  and  wiser  because  she  has  effectually  destroyed 
my  interest  in  every  other  woman,  and  it  is  an  interest 
in  women  which  keeps  a  man  young.  Don  Juan  lives 
to  a  green  old  age.  It  is  only  when  the  Don  Juan  in 
us  is  "scotched"  by  marriage  that  we  begin  to  show 
gray  at  the  temples.  And  that  I  have  said  good-by 
not  only  to  my  former  frivolous  days,  but  also  to 
Cynthia  Cochrane,  is  proof  positive  to  me  that  the 
pitcher  has  gone  to  the  well  for  the  last  time. 

It  was  rash  starting  out  in  the  fog.  I  knew  it  was. 
But  Lady  Susan  Thurston  had  made  such  a  point  of 
my  dining  with  them  that  night  that  it  was  obligatory 
on  me  to  keep  the  engagement  if  I  could.  For  two 
days  we  had  lived  in  a  city  of  Dreadful  Night,  traffic 
almost  at  a  standstill,  link-boys  driving  a  roaring 
trade  by  conducting  pedestrians  from  pavement  to 
pavement,  the  radiance  of  the  town  departed  in  gloom 
and  mystery.  I  had  expected  every  moment  to  receive 
a  message  announcing  that  the  function  had  been 
postponed,  but  as  none  came  I  made  the  perilous 
journey  from  Jermyn  Street  to  Lowndes  Square  on 
foot  under  the  hour,  although  in  crossing  Hyde  Park 
Corner  I  went  astray  in  the  lines  of  crawling  cabs 
and  vehicles  for  ten  minutes,  till  a  man  with  a  lantern 
came  to  my  rescue  and  steered  me  into  safety  by  St. 
George's  Hospital  for  two  shillings.  How  Miss  Mait- 
land  reached  the  house  I  don't  know,  but  the  deter- 
mination in  her  character,  which  at  other  times  leads 
hef  to  rebuke  my  shortcomings,  brought  her  from  the 
neighborhood  of  Portland  Place  by  a  circuitous  tour 
of  the  Tubes.  The  rest  of  the  guests  failed,  and  the 
gaps  at  the  dinner  table,  Mr.  Thurston's  cough  like 


NOVEMBER  337 

a  fog  horn,  and  the  inappropriate  choice  of  pea  soup 
to  commence  the  meal  with,  ruined  the  festive  side  of 
the  evening.  The  atmospheric  conditions  did  me  one 
good  turn.  They  sent  me  back  as  escort  to  Audrey 
Maitland. 

"Mr.  Hanbury,"  said  Lady  Susan,  about  ten 
o'clock,  when  my  uneasy  movements  proclaimed  the 
strain  of  the  forced  merrymaking  upon  me,  "  you 
will  have  to  see  Miss  Maitland  home.  I  strongly  dis- 
approve of  young  people  driving  about  together  late 
at  night,  but  my  sense  of  duty  as  chaperon  must  give 
way  to  considerations  of  personal  safety." 

It  was  not  my  place  to  offer  any  objections,  so  I 
closed  with  the  proposal  on  the  spot. 

When  Miss  Maitland  and  myself,  cloaked  and 
coated,  opened  the  hall  door,  we  looked  into  a  wall 
of  vapor  hiding  even  the  curb,  and  faintly  resonant 
with  the  muffled  sounds  of  an  unseen  world.  It 
seemed  hopeless  to  grope  our  way  through  the  somber 
pall  of  fog,  and  the  girl  would  have  accepted  the  im- 
provised couch  which  the  hostess  made  haste  to  offer, 
had  not  a  "  four-wheeler "  chosen  that  moment  for 
colliding  with  the  lamp-post  opposite,  despite  the  fact 
that  the  cabman  was  guiding  his  horse  by  the  reins, 
swearing  profusely  to  notify  all  others  of  his  progress. 

"Hi,  cab!"  I  shouted. 

The  man,  showing  as  a  gray  shadow  at  a  Histance  of 
a  few  feet,  looked  every  way  to  locate  his  would-be 
fare,  even  turning  his  face  upward  in  case  an  appari- 
tion might  appear  from  the  direction  of  the  roofs.  A 
London-  fog  so  changes  the  accustomed  order  of  things 
that  nothing  is  undreamed  of  in  Horatio's  philoso- 
phy. 

Taking  my  bearings  Nor'-East  by  Sou'-West,  lat. 


338  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

43°,  long.  10°,  I  marched  from  Lady  Susan's  door- 
step to  the  distressed  cabby. 

"All  right,"  I  exclaimed  cheerfully,  "you're  in 
Lowndes  Square.  If  you  go  straight  on  for  another 
ten  yards  you  will  be  in  the  area  of  Number  70.  Can 
you  take  me  to  Portland  Place — half  a  sovereign  an 
hour,  and  something  hot  when  you  get  there  ?  " 

"S'elp  me,  guv'nor,  I  cawn't  do  it,"  replied  the 
fellow.  "  I've  been  round  this  Square  like  a  bloomin* 
squirrel  in  a  cage  for  the  past  three-quarters  of  in 
hour,  and  I'm  nearly  off  my  chump." 

"  Be  a  sportsman !  "  I  urged  in  desperation.  "  I've 
got  to  take  a  young  lady  home,  and  if  you  get  us 
there  somehow  I'll  ask  you  to  the  wedding." 

Humor  won  where  argument  would  conspicuously 
have  failed.  The  man  winked,  drew  his  cab  out  of  the 
lamp-post,  and  turned  the  horse's  head  toward  the 
direction  in  which  I  indicated  that  Knightsbridge  lay. 
Hastening  back  to  the  house,  I  rescued  Audrey  Mait- 
land  from  the  suggestions  and  sympathy  with  which 
she  was  being  overwhelmed,  and  we  began  our  jour- 
ney through  the  fog,  which  engulfed  us  in  an  abomi- 
nation of  desolation  once  we  were  out  of  sight  of  the 
pavement.  Proceeding  at  a  slow  crawl,  we  reached 
the  main  thoroughfare  by  the  French  Embassy, 
crossed  it  without  collision,  by  dint  of  much  shouting 
from  our  guardian  cabman,  and,  assured  that  by 
hugging  the  curb  we  could  not  go  astray,  I  relin- 
quished my  vigil  at  the  window  and  turned  to  my 
companion  in  distress. 

"  It's  an  awful  night,"  I  began  feebly. 

"Why  did  we  ever  start?"  asked  the  girl.  "We 
shall  never  get  home.  I  wish  I'd  accepted  Lady 
Susan's  invitation  to  stay  with  them." 


NOVEMBER  339 

At  all  costs  Audrey's  spirits  had  to  be  kept  up. 

"  Never  say  die.     We  shall  be  all  right." 

"  You  are  very  cheerful." 

"Of  course  I  am;  I'm  with  you." 

The  girl  drew  away  into  her  corner  of  the  cab. 

"Please  don't  say  those  sort  of  things.  Do  be 
sensible  and  try  to  realize  our  danger !  " 

"  I  realize  my  danger."  I  put  all  the  emphasis  I 
could  on  the  pronoun.  "  I'm  in  deadly  peril,  I  know." 

"Oh!"  shuddered  Audrey  as  a  huge  black  mass 
loomed  up  at  the  window  on  her  side,  and  drove  her  to 
seek  the  protection  of  my  fur  coat.  How  I  blessed 
the  van,  which  avoided  colliding  with  us  by  a  hand's 
breadth. 

I  felt  myself  growing  light-headed. 

"Let  us  die  together,  at  any  rate,"  and  as  I  spoke 
I  slipped  my  arm  through  hers.  Providentially,  the 
shaft  of  another  cab  struck  us  full  astern,  and  instead 
of  releasing  herself,  the  girl  pressed  my  arm  for  se- 
curity. I  patted  the  only  hand  I  could  secure,  to 
convey  additional  comfort  to  her.  "We're  as  right 
as  rain,"  I  went  on,  with  a  confidence  I  didn't  feel. 

"  Shall  we  soon  be  there  ?  "  asked  Audrey,  ignoring 
anything  unusual  in  our  relationship. 

"  In  a  very  few  minutes  now." 

As  I  spoke  the  cab  came  to  a  dead  stop. 

While  our  conversation  had  lasted  we  had  passed 
through-  a  period  of  violent  commotion,  during  which 
many  voices  had  joined  in  a  cacophony  of  sound,  dim 
figures  had  sprung  up  out  of  the  mist,  and  had  been 
lost  again,  collisions  been  suddenly  threatened,  and 
then  as  suddenly  been  averted  by  magical  disappear- 
ance of  the  obstacle — a  Walpurgis  Night  of  Brocken 
specters  and  phantasmagoria.  But  now,  of  a  sudden, 


340  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

we  were  wrapped  in  a  silence  that  could  be  felt,  the 
clinging  mantle  of  fog  hanging  round  us  in  damp 
folds,  not  a  footfall,  not  a  movement  of  life  to  pene- 
trate the  chill  shroud  in  which  we  had  been  prema- 
turely buried. 

Smothering  my  misgivings,  I  took  out  my  watch. 

"  Why,  we've  only  been  thirty-five  minutes/*  I  said. 
"  I  call  that  an  excellent  journey  in  weather  like  this. 
I  suppose  he's  ringing  the  bell." 

The  door  creaked  open,  and  the  driver  stuck  his 
head  in. 

"  I  dunno  where  we  are,"  he  muttered,  with  heavy 
intensity,  suggestive  of  the  view  that  he  had  given  up 
all  hopes  of  ever  seeing  his  family  again,  and  was 
resigned  to  slow  starvation  on  the  spot.  In  later,  and 
less  foggy  times,  his  skeleton  would  be  found  to  bring 
the  tragedy  of  his  fate  to  light. 

I  got  out  with  all  haste.  If  Audrey  wanted  a  good 
cry  to  relieve  her  feelings,  falsely  buoyed  up  by  my 
ill-timed  confidence  and  pleasantries,  let  her  have  it 
while  my  back  was  turned.  I  drew  the  cabman  aside 
and  consulted.  He  had,  it  appeared,  followed  the  line 
of  the  curb  past  what  he  thought  was  Park  Lane 
until,  thrust  out  from  its  friendly  pilotage  by  a  hansom 
abandoned  as  derelict  by  the  driver,  he  had  never 
been  able  to  regain  the  pavement,  and  in  desperation 
had  followed  a  covered  van  down  the  center  of  the 
roadway,  encouraged  to  do  so  by  the  apparent  sure- 
ness  of  judgment  which  was  controlling  its  destinies. 
Then  of  a  sudden  it  had  stopped,  and  our  charioteer, 
drawing  level,  had  discovered  on  its  box  a  bewildered 
individual  fresh  woke  from  sleep.  But  the  most 
puzzling  feature  to  the  cabman  was  the  non-appear- 
ance of  the  slope  of  Piccadilly.  Faith  may  be  able 


NOVEMBER  841 

to  remove  mountains,  but  it  hadn't  been  able  in  his 
case  to  prevent  the  removal  of  the  hill  in  Piccadilly. 

In  emergencies  he  who  hesitates  is  lost. 

"  I've  got  it,"  I  said,  with  calm  decision.  "  We  are 
on  the  top  of  the  hill  looking  toward  the  Circus.  Go 
quickly  to  the  right,  and  when  you  come  to  the  Park 
railings  call  out." 

The  man  vanished,  walking  gingerly  as  though  he 
expected  snakes  to  materialize  from  the  wood  pave- 
ment. In  a  few  moments  I  heard  his  shout,  "  There's 
a  row  of  bloomin'  'ouses." 

"  Confound  it ! "  I  said  when  he  came  back,  guided 
by  my  cries.  "You  must  have  turned  right  around, 
and  be  taking  us  back  to  Lowndes  Square.  The  park 
is  on  our  left.  I'll  find  it  in  a  brace  of  shakes." 

All  I  did,  however,  was  to  find  another  row  of 
houses.  Had  we  all  died  in  our  sleep  and  become 
ghosts,  condemned  to  an  endless  quest  in  a  foggy 
Purgatory  for  a  phantom  Portland  Place  ?  Surely  we 
hadn't  been  such  sinners !  Then  a  stroke  of  luck  hap- 
pened. A  person,  solid-looking  enough  to  dispel  all 
fears  that  I  was  disembodied,  who  was  advancing  by 
means  of  clutching  on  the  area  railings  of  each  house 
in  turn,  ran  into  me.  I  hugged  my  bruise  and  greeted 
him. 

"  Hello,  where  are  you?  " 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  "  I  left  Grosvenor  Square  twenty 
minutes  ago,  and  I  ought  to  be  in  North  Audley  Street 
by  now." 

How  on  earth  had  our  cab  taken  the  intricate  turn- 
ings requisite  to  land  us  there?  It  always  seems  to 
me  a  difficult  route  to  steer  in  daylight,  through  the 
narrow,  winding  passage  from  Park  Lane. 

"Are  you  quite  sure?" 


TOO   MANY  WOMEN 

I  put  this  further  question  to  my  savior,  but  he  had 
started  on  another  area  and  was  swallowed  up  in 
blackness.  With  difficulty  I  regained  the  cab  and 
revealed  the  truth  to  the  cabby.  His  blank  amaze- 
ment was  refreshing,  but  he  had  other  news  for  me. 

"  Pore  young  laidy,"  and  he  jerked  a  finger  to- 
ward the  cab.  "Taking  it  very  much  to  'eart. 
She  thinks  you've  gone  forever.  No  weddin',  no 
nuffin',"  and  he  dashed  an  imaginary  tear  to  the 
ground. 

"  Nonsense,"  I  replied  sharply.  "  We're  not  going 
to  be  married." 

"  Not  going  to  be  married ! " — and  the  cabman 
slapped  his  chest.  "Why,  I'd  never  of  come  this 
blasted  journey  if  I  'adn't  thought  I  was  doing  a  kind 
turn  to  a  pair  o' '  spoons ' ! " 

"What's  the  man  saying?" 

Why  Audrey  Maitland  chose  that  particular  mo- 
ment to  interrupt  the  tete-a-tete  between  the  cabman 
and  myself  passes  my  comprehension.  It  was  un- 
canny to  a  degree. 

"  The  fog's  got  into  his  head,"  I  stammered.  "  He 
was  telling  me  that  his  sister  was  going  to  be  married, 
and  he  intended  giving  her  two  spoons." 

My  interruption  was  ignored. 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  the  girl  asked  the  cabby 
imperiously. 

The  man  shuffled  his  feet,  an  irritating  habit,  but 
that  didn't  justify  the  severe  tone  Audrey  Maitland 
addressed  him  in. 

"Did  that  gentleman  say  we  were  going  to  be 
married,  and  induce  you  to  take  us  as  fares  in  con- 
sequence? Did  he  say  that?" 

Audrey  had  been  listening  all  the  time,  the  deceit- 


NOVEMBER  343 

ful  creature!  My  blood  boiled  with  anger,  and 
several  other  feelings  I  shan't  specify,  and  carried  me 
out  of  my  usual  timid  self. 

"  Yes ! "  I  exclaimed,  "  I  said  all  that,  and  I'd  say 
it  again  if  necessary.  I  am  going  to  marry  you.  Get 
back  into  the  cab  this  instant,  or  you  won't  survive 
to  marry  anybody.  And  you,"  I  said  to  the  cabby, 
paralyzed  at  the  turn  given  to  the  situation,  "  take  us 
where  the  devil  you  like.  But  if  you  get  into  another 
mess,  you  must  find  your  way  out  yourself.  Don't 
bother  me !  "  And  I  climbed  back  into  the  cab,  which 
had  suddenly  become  the  most  desirable  spot  on  earth. 
I  registered  a  sudden  vow  to  pass  the  rest  of  my  days 
in  four-wheelers. 

"Audrey!" 

Not  a  sound  escaped  from  the  girl,  hidden  in  her 
corner.  Very  gently  I  took  her  hand,  which  lay  im- 
passive in  mine. 

"  Audrey,  I  told  the  truth  to  the  cabman.  I  love 
you.  I  am  going  to  marry  you.  Will  you  marry 
me?" 

There  came  the  soft  pressure  of  her  fingers  on 
mine.  That  was  the  only  answer  I  got,  but  it  was 
sufficient ! 

I  believe  we  reached  Portland  Place  about  mid- 
night, and  I  know  I  gave  the  cabman  a  five-pound 
note.  "  The  rest  is  silence." 


DECEMBER 


The  poppied  sleep,  the  end  of  all."— SWINBURNE. 


DECEMBER 

Hanbury  v.  Hanbury,  Rev.  Sturgis  intervening — The 
Plight  of  a  Fiance — A  Bachelor  Deceased 

MY  engagement  to  Audrey  Maitland,  the  public 
announcement  of  which  appeared  in  the 
Morning  Post  less  than  a  week  after  the  events  in  the 
fog,  has  been  welcomed  nowhere  more  heartily  than 
in  my  own  family.  The  bachelor  career  of  an  only 
son  gives  rise  to  apprehensions  which  are  entertained 
in  lesser  degree  where  the  male  olive  branches  grow 
thicker,  and  I  learned  from  my  father's  confidences 
how  deeply  concerned  my  parents  had  been  lest  I 
should  bring  an  unsuitable  bride  to  receive  their 
blessing. 

"  All  anxiety  is  laid  at  rest  now,  Gerald,"  my  father 
said  as  we  sat  together  settling  ways  and  means  dur- 
ing a  week-end  I  had  stolen  from  Fleet  Street.  "  But 
I  must  confess  we  had  grave  misgivings  as  to  your 
possible  choice  of  a  wife." 

"  My  dear  father,"  was  my  reply,  "  it  is  the  parents' 
fault  when  a  son  marries  a  barmaid,  and  a  daughter 
elopes  with  her  riding-master.  The  society  of  the 
opposite  sex  is  a  necessity  for  healthy  youth,  and  if 
girls  and  boys  can't  meet  possible  suitors  of  their  own 
rank  in  life  at  home,  they  will  cultivate  impossible  ones 
outside  it.  For  all  the  young  women  mother  has 
made  any  efforts  to  invite  here,  I  might  hav«  died 
celibate." 

"  Yes,  your  mother  is  difficult,  I  know.  SKe  says 
she  finds  everybody  unsuitable  when  she  comes  to 
make  their  acquaintance." 

347 


348  TOO   MANY  WOMEN 

"  But  that's  no  excuse,  sir,  for  having  nobody  down 
here.  Look  at  Dulcie.  Is  she  going  to  marry  the 
curate,  for  as  far  as  I  can  make  out  he's  the  only  man 
ever  about  the  place?" 

If  I  had  wished  to  draw  a  red-herring  across  the 
trail  of  my  own  affairs  I  couldn't  have  done  better 
than  drag  in  the  curate. 

"  Should  you  call  Dulcie  impressionable  ? "  asked 
my  father,  with  apparent  irrelevance. 

"Well,  as  she's  my  sister,  she  probably  is,"  I  re- 
torted. a  I  thought  she  took  a  fancy  to  George  Burn 
at  Easter,  but  then  taking  a  fancy  to  George  is  like 
taking  a  share  in  a  foreign  lottery.  There  are  so  many 
competitors  that  the  chance  of  drawing  the  prize  is  one 
in  ten  thousand." 

"  Why  is  it,"  mused  my  father,  still  pursuing  the 
devious  line  of  thought  he  had  started  on,  "  that 
though  the  clergy  occupy  such  a  privileged  position, 
and  play  the  chief  part  in  the  most  important  crises 
of  life,  one  never  welcomes  them  as  prospective  mem- 
bers of  one's  own  household  with  any  enthusiasm? 
You  would  have  broken  my  heart,  Gerald,  if  you  had 
wanted  to  enter  the  Church." 

"Fortunately,  sir,"  I  replied,  "I  preferred  giving 
orders  to  taking  them.  What's  the  'padre'  here 
like?  I  didn't  see  much  of  him  when  I  was  down 
here  last." 

My  parent  rubbed  his  chin. 

"  The  Rev.  Mr.  Sturgis  is  a  regular  curate,"  he  said, 
with  apt  description..  "  Your  sister's  got  the  woman's 
notion  that  to  marry  a  clergyman  is  a  mission." 

"  So  it  is,  submission !  What  makes  you  think  the 
matter  is  serious  ?  " 

"  Dulcie  attends  the  early  morning  Celebration,  she 


DECEMBER  349 

reads  the  Parish  Magazine,  and  she  thinks  He  sings 
quite  nicely,  when  she  must  know  he's  never  in  tune." 

I  gave  a  groan.  "She's  as  good  as  engaged,  sir. 
Can't  anything  be  done?" 

"Your  sister  looks  up  to  you,  Gerald,"  said  my 
father,  "  because  of  your  friendship  with  Mr.  Steward. 
If  you  should  say  something  it  might  have  an  effect. 
It's  very  hard  that  these  domestic  worries  should  come 
on  top  of  the  agricultural  depression." 

I  agreed,  and  with  that  our  conversation  "  returned 
to  its  muttons."  My  father,  desirous  that  the  mar- 
riage should  take  place  as  soon  after  the  New  Year 
as  possible,  made  such  handsome  provision  for  Audrey 
and  myself  that  the  financial  side  of  the  question  was 
settled  there  and  then. 

My  own  satisfaction  was  considerably  modified  by 
the  suspicion  sown  in  my  mind  that  my  only  sister 
might  be  about  to  endow  me  with  a  clerical  brother- 
in-law.  Without  doubt  Dulcie  is  impressionable,  and 
lacking  the  worldly  wisdom  to  counteract  her  impulses. 
How  often  do  those  sudden  attachments  formed  for  a 
partner  at  a  county  ball,  or  the  mysterious  masked 
soloist  on  the  sands,  survive  the  discovery  that  the 
parent  is  "  something  in  the  city,"  or  that  the  adored 
one's  handwriting  resembles  the  perambulations  of  a 
spider  which  has  fallen  into  the  inkpot  and  is  trying 
to  dry  itself?  That  is  to  say,  the  budding  affections 
wither  away  in  the  case  of  a  well-balanced  person,  but 
with  Dulcie  the  prudent  course  would  savor  of 
cowardice,  and  she  would  feel  all  the  more  attracted  to 
the  individual  placed  on  the  wrong  side  of  such  social 
gulfs.  But  I  didn't  see  what  I  could  do,  nor  how  I 
could  lead  up  to  so  delicate  a  subject  without  giving1 
the  show  away. 


350  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

When  I  am  undecided  I  am  wont  to  trust  to  th"e  in- 
spiration of  the  moment,  and  on  this  occasion  it  came 
on  Sunday  afternoon,  when  Dulcie  was  doing  needle- 
work, and  I  was  reaping  a  miscellaneous  harvest  from 
the  bookshelf.  It  was  in  Dr.  Johnson's  criticism  of 
Pope,  in  his  Lives  of  the  Poets,  that  I  came  upon  the 
following  passage : 

"  The  freaks,  and  humors,  and  spleen,  and  vanity 
of  women,  as  they  embroil  families  in  discord,  and 
fill  houses  with  disquiet,  do  more  to  obstruct  the  hap- 
piness of  life  in  a  year  than  the  ambition  of  the  clergy 
in  many  centuries." 

I  gave  a  hoarse  chuckle  at  the  Doctor's  mellow 
wisdom. 

Dulcie  looked  up.  "What's  the  matter?"  she 
asked. 

"  Listen  to  this ! "  I  said,  and  read  the  passage. 

Dulcie  tossed  her  head.  "  An  ill-tempered,  spiteful 
old  man ! " 

"  You've  got  to  live  as  long  as  the  Doctor  to  see  the 
truth  of  it,"  I  remarked.  "  He  couples  women  and 
clergymen  as  the  disturbing  elements  in  life.  Women 
and  clergymen,"  I  repeated  sagely. 

"  Gerald ! "  Dulcie's  voice  sounded  sharply.  "  Has 
father  or  mother  been  saying  anything  to  you?" 

I  assumed  my  "  village  idiot "  expression. 

"  No.    Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  said  Dulcie,  bending  quickly  over  her 
work,  but  not  quick  enough  to  hide  her  rising  color 
from  me. 

I  pretended  complete  ignorance  of  my  sister's  con- 
fusion, and  went  on  with  my  homily. 


DECEMBER  351 

"  The  ambition  of  the  clergy — I  wish  tfiey  Had  more, 
or,  rather,  one  that  took  a  different  form  than  that  of 
having  twice  as  many  children  as  they  possess  *  hun- 
dreds' a  year.  No  clergyman  should  marry  until  he 
is  an  archdeacon,  and  as  for  curates,  matrimony  on 
their  part  ought  to  be  a  penal  offense,  entailing  the  loss 
of  civil  rights  for  seven  years." 

"  What  are  civil  rights  ?  "  asked  Dulcie,  not  in  the 
least  interested,  but  anxious  to  stave  off  further  de- 
nunciation of  the  "  Cloth." 

"  The  right  to  give  up  one's  place  in  a  public  con- 
veyance to  a  woman  and  strap-hang ;  the  right  to  jump 
up  from  a  comfortable  chair  to  open  the  door  for  her ; 
the  right  to  accept  personal  discomfort  as  though  it 
were  pleasure  in  order  to  conform  to  a  medieval  code 
of  chivalry.  But  to  return  to  curates " 

Dulcie  gave  a  start.  So  she'd  thought,  had  she, 
that  she  was  to  be  spared  any  more  wounds  in  her  ten- 
derest  feelings?  When  I  undertake  a  commission  I 
invariably  execute  it. 

"  The  only  one  of  my  contemporaries  at  Oxford  who 
became  a  curate,"  I  rolled  out,  "  died  from  injuries  he 
received  at  the  hands  of  a  landowner  whose  daughter 
he  was  courting  against  her  parents'  will,  after  a  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour's  sermon,  on  a  day,  too,  when  the 
ice  in  the  park  bore  for  the  first  time  that  winter.  The 
coroner's  jury  returned  a  verdict  of  *  Natural  death,' 
and  very  natural  it  was  under  the  circumstances.  No, 
curates  are  outside  the  pale  of  human  tolerance  and 
charity ! " 

"  Gerald,"  said  Dulcie,  "  I  quite  agree  with  you.  I 
haven't  heard  that  point  of  view  put  so  clearly  before ! 
How  well  you  express  yourself ! "  and  she  sighed  with 
regret  for  all  those  rosy  visions  of  a  future  in  a  vicar- 


352  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

age  which  my  logic  and  eloquence  had  destroyed  for- 
ever. Nevermore,  she  felt,  could  she  be  comfortable 
in  the  company  of  a  man  the  faults  of  whose  calling 
had  been  so  strikingly  revealed  to  her.  To  show  her 
gratitude  to  me  for  tearing  the  scales  from  her  eyes, 
Dulcie  put  down  her  needlework  and,  crossing  the 
room,  perched  herself  on  the  arm  of  my  chair,  put  one 
arm  around  my  neck,  and  began  stroking  my  hair. 
"Dear  little  sister,"  I  thought.  "If  only  I  could 
help  to  make  you  as  happy  as  I  am." 

"  Gerald,"  said  Dulcie  in  her  sweetest  tones,  "  I  am 
so  glad  you  are  going  to  marry  Audrey.  She's  a  per- 
fect darling!  But  I  shall  miss  you  dreadfully.  I 
didn't  realize  before  how  much  a  kind  brother,  like 
you  have  always  been,  meant  to  a  girl.  You  are  so 
clever,  and  see  through  things  so  quickly,  that  I  can't 
think  what  I  shall  do  without  your  advice." 

I  was  thoroughly  touched.  Gratitude  of  any  kind 
is  rare,  and  between  members  of  the  same  family 
phenomenally  so.  Dulcie  had  done  me  the  justice  to 
recognize  the  disinterestedness  of  my  counsel,  and 
some  reparation  was  undoubtedly  due  from  myself  to 
the  little  girl  at  my  side.  As  I  had  pulled  down  one 
plan  of  her  own,  I  must  help  to  build  another  in  its 
place. 

"  I  shall  miss  you,  too,  Dulcie,"  I  said.  "  I've  tried 
to  be  a  good  brother  to  you,  and  if  I  have  sometimes 
been  rather  '  down '  on  you,  it's  only  because  I've 
taken  such  interest  in  you.  But  if  ever  you  want  any 
help  come  to  me.  I'll  do  anything  to  make  you 
happy." 

Dulcie  bent  down  and  kisse'd  me. 

"  Would  you  really  do  anything  for  me,  Gerald  ?  " 
she  whispered.  "  For  I  do  want  your  help  now." 


DECEMBER  853 

I  made  a  rapid  mental  calculation.  After  all,  Dulcie 
deserved  a  return  for  so  bravely  throwing  over  her 
curate,  on  whom  her  thoughts,  I  am  sure,  had  been  set 
before  I  spoke  to  her.  It  was  probably  some  trivial 
service  she  had  in  mind,  magnified  by  her  feminine 
lack  of  proportion.  Her  faith  in  me  had  been  so 
touching  that  I  could  rely  on  her  asking  me  nothing 
I  couldn't  readily  grant. 

"  Yes ;  I  will  do  anything  for  you." 

"  Promise  me  on  your  word  of  honor  that  you  will 
never  go  back  on  your  word,  but  will  always  stand  by 
me!" 

If  it  had  been  a  man  who  had  tried  to  extract  this 
solemn  pledge  from  me  I  should  have  been  suspicious, 
but  women  love  these  dramatic  touches. 

"  All  right,  Dulcie.  I  promise  on  my  word  of  honor 
to  stand  by  you.  What  is  it  ?  " 

Dulcie  drew  my  cheek  close  to  hers.  "  Gerald,  I'm 
secretly  engaged  to  Mr.  Sturgis.  I'm  so  glad  you're 
going  to  help  me  to  marry  him." 

It  is  a  rule  of  mine  never  to  swear  before  ladies,  but 
I  broke  it  six  times  in  as  many  seconds,  before  leaping 
to  my  feet  in  a  towering  rage. 

"Dulcie,  you  deceitful  little  hypocrite!  you  aban- 
doned little  wretch !  How  dare  you  make  me  promise 
a  thing  like  that?  I'll  never,  never,  never  trust  you 
again,  or  believe  a  word  you  say!" 

Dulcie  burst  into  tears,  and  buried  her  head  in  the 
cushions.  I  looked  into  the  glass  to  straighten  my  tie, 
grinding  my  teeth  to  keep  my  temper  up  to  fighting 
pitch,  and  drown  the  noise  of  Dulcie's  sobs.  Crying 
is  a  most  unfair  weapon  to  fight  with.  However 
much  a  man  may  be  in  the  right,  tears  make  him  feel 
a  brute,  in  spite  of  himself.  I  stood  on  the  hearthrug, 


854  TOO   MANY   WOMEN 

like  a  convicted  criminal,  when  all  the  while  I  was 
championing  the  cause  of  Truth  and  Decency  against 
my  sister's  attacks  upon  those  sacred  principles  in  our 
domestic  and  civic  life. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Dulcie,  don't  cry  like  that,"  I 
exclaimed  in  desperation,  "or  I  shall  shriek  aloud. 
You've  behaved  very  badly  to  me,  but  I  won't  go  back 
on  my  word,  although  I  ought  to.  You've  played 
it  low  down  upon  a  trusting  brother,  but  if  you'll  stop 
that  noise  and  promise  to  do  nothing  rash, — registrar's 
office,  for  example, — I'll  see  what  I  can  do.  There 
now!" 

My  sister  changed  gears,  turned  off  the  radiator, 
and  ceased  to  exceed  the  speed  limit.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments she  was  drying  her  eyes,  and  turning  up  her 
tearstained  cheek  to  be  kissed.  But  as  I  kissed  it  I 
wasn't  thinking  of  Dulcie,  but  of  myself,  and  how  I 
had  been  outwitted  by  a  girl  in  her  teens.  So  much 
for  masculine  vainglory! 

•  •  •  •  • 

The  only  one  of  my  friends  to  whom  I  am  not  an 
object  of  chaff  and  commiseration  is  young  Massey, 
and  his  sedulous  inquiries  as  to  the  conditions  of  an 
engagement,  and  the  sensations  engendered  by  it, 
show  that  he  takes  far  too  intelligent  and  lively  an 
interest  in  it  for  his  two  and  twenty  years.  The  great 
problem  before  him  is  the  choice  of  a  career,  not  a 
wife,  and  if  I  were  Lady  Susan  Thurston,  which,  thank 
God,  I'm  not,  I'd  forbid  Give  Massey  to  see  anything 
of  Dolly  until  he  could  call  with  a  check  for  £100 
and  say,  "I've  earned  it."  But  with  this  not  very 
bright  exception  I  am  made  to  feel  by  George  and 
Archie  Haines  and  the  rest  that  I  have  betrayed  the 
citadel  of  my  sex,  and  handed  over  the  keys  to  the 


DECEMBER  855 

enemy.  I  am  stopped,  too,  from  airing  a  contrary 
view  by  the  quoting  against  me  of  my  own  dicta, 
uttered  six  months  ago,  and  which  have  been  pre- 
served by  oral  tradition  owing  to  their  spontaneity 
and  wit.  I  am  a  jester  strangled  with  his  own  toby. 

In  one's  salad  days  one  knows,  really,  very  little 
about  women,  for  the  light  side  of  the  lantern  is  al- 
ways turned  on  one.  With  a  more  intimate  experi- 
ence of  the  sex  the  crudity  of  a  bachelor's  notions  gets 
toned  down.  The  disgusting  selfishness  of  the  un- 
married man  appals  me  now  that  I  have  risen  to  loftier 
heights  of  sacrifice,  but  I  see  it  is  useless  to  convince 
hardened  skeptics  of  the  type  of  George  Burn  as  to  the 
reformation  to  be  effected  in  their  characters  by  get- 
ting engaged  to  what  is  described  as  "a  nice  girl." 
To  any  right-minded  bachelor  all  girls  are  nice,  and 
discrimination  only  sets  in  when  the  fact  of  his  en- 
gagement makes  it  an  act  of  disloyalty  to  his  fiancee 
to  think  otherwise.  Some  day  George  will  be  in  the 
same  plight,  and  then  he  will  come  to  me  for  advice, 
and  get  the  stiffest  lecture  on  his  past  career  he  has 
ever  had.  When  that  is  done  I  shall  be  ready  to  give 
him  tips,  and  the  first  one,  printed  in  the  heaviest  type, 
and  framed  to  hang  over  his  bed  so  as  to  drive  home 
its  message,  will  be,  "Have  as  short  an  engagement 
as  possible." 

The  engagement  is  a  strain  for  both  the  "  high'  con- 
tracting parties,"  to  quote  a  phrase  from  the  preamble 
of  treaties  which  takes  my  fancy,  since  the  couple  are 
in  much  the  same  state  of  excitement  as  that  which  fills 
children  in  the  theater  before  the  curtain  has  risen. 
Audrey  is  a  sensible  girl,  and  she  does  her  best  to 
assuage  the  miseries  of  my  position,  but  she  can't  alle- 
viate the  sufferings  of  being  "  bear-led  "  around  her 


356  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

relatives  and  made  to  show  my  paces,  or  of  the  surfeit 
of  one  person's  society  which  an  engagement  involves. 
I'm  sure  it's  a  great  mistake  for  engaged  couples  to 
spend  all  their  time  together.  To  get  to  know  each 
other  too  well  leaves  nothing  to  occupy  those  long, 
long  evenings,  after  baby  has  been  put  to  bed,  and 
before  the  last  post  has  brought  its  sheaf  of  household 
bills.  Then,  surely,  is  the  time  to  explore  the  depths 
of  a  wife's  character,  and,  by  skillful  inquiry  into 
parental  antecedents,  to  discover  whether  that  tendency 
to  hysteria  at  the  breakfast  table,  which  does  so  much 
to  make  home  seem  like  home,  comes  from  the  aunt 
who  gained  "honorable  mention"  in  the  class  for 
goiters  at  the  Hydrocephalic  Congress,  or  the  uncle 
who  became  an  involuntary  parricide  by  aiming  with 
a  coal-hammer  at  the  blue  rat  he  saw  (and  corrobo- 
rated the  fact  on  oath  in  the  subsequent  criminal  pro- 
ceedings) running  over  his  father's  bald  head.  To 
postpone  such  research  work  till  after  the  nuptial  knot 
has  been  irrevocably  tied  adds  to  that  unexpectedness 
which  is  the  chief  charm  of  marriage. 

Far  and  away  the  worst  ordeal  is  the  personally  con- 
ducted tour  through  her  family  circle  which  the  bride- 
elect  inflicts  on  the  bridegroom-to-be.  Nearly  every 
night  I  am  the  honored  guest  of  one  branch  or  an- 
other of  the  Maitland  family,  and  suffer  the  same 
pangs  as  seized  me  when  I  underwent  viva  voce 
examinations  in  the  University  of  Oxford,  painfully 
aware  of  my  own  limitations  and  the  overwhelming 
odds  against  me.  Most  of  Audrey's  relatives  act  upon 
the  assumption  that  she  isn't  fit  to  choose  a  husband 
for  herself,  and  that  therefore  it  is  their  duty  to  make 
her  realize  how  unworthy  is  the  object  of  her  choice. 
[The  questions  they  address  to  me  prove  that  Lodge's 


DECEMBER  857 

County  Families  has  been  searched  in  tfie  Hopes  of 
finding  a  blot  upon  the  Hanbury  escutcheon,  and  in  de- 
fault of  damning  evidence  there,  I  must  be  made  to  re- 
veal personal  shortcomings.  I  don't  know  that  I 
don't  prefer  this  attitude  to  the  one  adopted  by  those 
ladies  who  fall  upon  my  neck  and  welcome  me  into 
their  circle  with  embraces.  I  can  stand  being  cut, 
but  not  kissed. 

I  must  make  a  very  poor  figure  in  the  eyes  of  the 
uncles,  aunts,  cousins  and  personal  friends  who  are 
invited  to  inspect  the  new  recruit  at  dinner.  I  enter 
the  room  crowded  with  strange  faces,  as  well  hidden 
behind  Audrey's  skirts  as  I  can  contrive.  A  silence 
falls  upon  the  groups,  which  have  been  chatting  ani- 
matedly till  we  arrive  to  stop  the  conversation,  so  that 
our  gestures  may  be  studied,  the  exact  angle  of  my 
handshake  and  bow  noted.  Trembling  in  every  limb, 
I  am  introduced  to  General  Sir  George  and  Lady  Mait- 
land,  Mrs.  Maitland,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Maitland, 
Miss  Maitland,  Mr.  Humphrey  Maitland,  the  Misses 
Clodagh  and  Grace  Maitland,  and  expected  to  remem- 
ber the  identity  of  each  upon  any  subsequent  occasion 
I  address  them.  I  meet  the  uncle  whose  bump  of 
philo-progenitiveness  stands  out  like  a  volcanic  crater, 
and  who  initiates  me  into  all  the  family  scandals  of  the 
last  two  generations.  I  take  into  dinner  a  maiden  aunt 
whom  I  form  an  instant  aversion  for  because  her  idea 
of  breaking  the  ice  is  to  suggest  that  I  shall  volunteer 
assistance  to  her  creche  in  Whitechapel.  On  my  other 
side  is  a  lady  who  knows  some  distant  cousins  of  mine, 
and  expects  me  to  supply  their  biographies  while  I 
am  struggling  with  a  tough  pheasant  as  full  of  lead  as 
a  9.7  gun.  I  explain  that  I  am  no  relation  to  the 
Hanbuays  of  Crane  Court,  that  my^  father  hasn't 


358  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

married  twice  and  mortgaged  his  estate  up  to  the  hilt, 
and  that  I  am  older  than  I  look.  I  listen  to  statements 
that  Audrey  isn't  an  heiress,  but  that  her  mother  was 
a  Mold,  one  of  the  old  Molds  of  Worcestershire.  I 
drink  sour  claret  and  smoke  green  cigars — all  for  love 
of  Audrey.  Can  devotion  go  further? 

The  presents  are  a  more  satisfactory  side  to  an  en- 
gagement, and  with  my  wedding  fixed  for  early  in 
January,  they  have  already  begun  to  oust  my  books 
from  the  table  to  the  floor,  and  to  litter  my  rooms  with 
straw  and  tissue  paper.  One  of  the  first  to  arrive  was 
a  dispatch  box  from  Mrs.  Bellew,  a  handsome  present 
considering  her  frustrated  hopes  for  Sybil. 

"  We  are  so  glad,"  Mrs.  Bellew  wrote,  "  that  you 
have  at  last  settled  to  marry,  and  such  a  charming  girl 
as  we  hear  Miss  Maitland  is.  Sybil  thinks  she  has 
met  her,  but  can  remember  nothing  about  her.  I  am 
afraid  we  shan't  get  to  the  wedding,  as  we  are  think- 
ing of  going  to  St.  Moritz  after  Christmas."  Mrs. 
Bellew  needn't  have  qualified  her  generosity  in  that 
way! 

The  Thurstons  have  sent  a  bridge  table,  and  an  in- 
vitation to  Rosshire  next  autumn  for  the  pair  of  us. 
Griffiths'  contribution  is  a  liqueur  set — "The  married 
man's  best  friend,"  as  he  described  it  in  the  covering 
note.  From  Lady  Fullard  came  an  electro-plated 
butter  dish,  which  I  had  the  presence  of  mind  to 
change  at  once  for  a  cigarette  case.  I  don't  want  a 
butter  dish  ornamented  with  an  embossed  head  of 
King  Edward  upon  my  breakfast  table. 

I  was  much  puzzled  as  to  the  donor  of  a  finely 
bound  set  of  Browning's  works,  till  I  found  a  sheet  of 
paper  slipped  in  to  mark  the  poem  "  Any  Wife  to  Any 
Husband,"  and  containing  one  line : 


DECEMBER!  359 

"  May  you  be  as  happy  as  I  mean  to  be. 

"  JULIA  PONTING-MALLOW." 

So  that  escapade  with  Rowan  has  brought  good  in 
its  train,  since  it  has  taught  Mrs.  Mallow  contentment 
with  her  lot. 

But  it  was  not  until  a  parcel  arrived  addressed  in 
Cynthia  Cochrane's  handwriting,  that  I  suddenly  real- 
ized I  had  all  the  while  been  wondering  whether  I 
should  hear  again  from  her.  I  undid  the  coverings 
hastily,  to  find  a  miniature  set  in  a  plain  gold  circlet, 
with  my  monogram  on  the  back.  The  likeness  was 
remarkable,  done  with  a  daintiness  that  reproduced  the 
beauty  of  Cynthia  so  vividly  that  all  the  tumultuous 
memories  of  the  past  rushed  back  again.  A  letter  ac- 
companied the  gift : 

"  DEAR  GERALD  : 

"  I  am  sending  you  a  memento  of  our  friendship  as 
a  message  of  good  luck.  Still  think  of  me  as  a  friend 
who  wishes  you  well,  whatever  happens.  As  you  told 
me,  I  have  my  career,  and  careers  have  a  way  of  not 
going  with  happiness.  You  are  one  of  the  lucky  peo- 
ple who  have  found  how  to  combine  both.  Jimmy 
Berners  is,  at  last,  beginning  to  realize  that  I  shan't 
like  him  any  the  less  if  I  don't  see  so  much  of  him. 
Who  knows  but  that  importunity  and  persistence  may 
not  win  the  day  over  romance? 

"Good-by,  Gerald;  you  can  be  a  hard  man  to  a 
woman.  Show  your  wife  the  soft  side  of  your  nature 
sometimes. 

"  CYNTHIA/' 

A  husband  and  wife,  they  say,  should  have  no 


360  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

secrets  from  each  other.     All  the  same,  I  shan't  show 
Audrey  that  letter. 

My  race  is  run,  and  I  am  ready  to  stand  before  the 
altar  of  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  and  swear 
away  my  single-blessedness  with  an  "  I  will  "  in  which 
the  spectator  may  detect  a  cheerful  or  a  mournful  note, 
as  he  pleases,  for  I  have  spent  the  last  New  Year's 
Eve  of  my  bachelor  life  with  my  three  greatest  friends, 
Frank  Steward,  Archie  Haines,  and  George  Burn,  and 
I  am  sitting,  solitary,  before  the  dead  ashes  on  the 
hearth,  with  an  empty  pipe  between  my  teeth. 

At  first  I  had  contemplated  gathering  some  twenty 
acquaintances  around  me  for  the  last  solemn  rite  of 
drinking  "  no  heel-taps  "  to  my  wedded  future,  but, 
uncertain  as  to  how  far  I  could  control  my  feelings 
when  the  moment  came  for  "  Ave  atque  Vale,"  I  did 
not  wish  to  parade  my  sorrow  before  folk  who  might 
be  unsympathetic.  I  therefore  limited  my  hospitality 
to  the  three  men  I  knew  I  could  trust  never  to  reveal 
any  weakness  I  might  display,  for  New  Year's  Eve 
is  a  celebration  I  always  find  affecting.  To  strike  a 
moral  balance  sheet,  and  reckon  the  profit  or  loss  of 
the  past  twelve  months,  is  a  responsible  undertaking. 
Even  a  saint  must  expect  to  find  a  few  items,  which  no 
sophistry  can  explain  away,  to  cause  a  twinge  of  con- 
science, although  as  time  goes  on  one's  sense  of  pro- 
portion tends  to  adjust  itself.  The  facts  which  seem 
to  require  expiation  at  twenty,  merely  evoke  a  tolerant 
smile  at  thirty.  The  mortal  sins  of  our  youth  are  the 
peccadilloes  of  our  middle  age.  If  George,  for  in- 
stance, wore  a  hair  shirt  for  every  indiscretion  he  had 
committed  in  the  year,  he  would  appear  as  bulky  as  an 
Eskimo  in  winter  plumage.  The  philosopher,  rather, 


DECEMBER  361 

spends  New  Year's  Eve  in  self-satisfied  recollection  of 
the  failings  of  the  past,  and  in  pleasurable  anticipation 
of  those  to  be  indulged  in  the  future.  And  it  was  in 
some  such  mood  that  Haines  and  George  arrived  in 
Jermyn  Street  to  partake  of  my  farewell  supper,  for 
they  showed  no  sense  of  their  coming  loss,  and  in- 
dulged in  ill-timed  jibes  at  my  expense.  Steward, 
too,  whom  I  relied  upon  to  tune  the  proceedings  to  the 
key  of  doleful  reminiscence  in  which  I  wished  the 
scene  to  be  played,  encouraged  the  others  in  their 
badinage,  by  telling  me  to  "  cheer  up"  and  not  be  "  as 
morbid  as  a  mute  at  a  funeral "  when  I  commented  on 
their  bad  taste. 

I  had  no  appetite  when  we  four  sat  down  to  dinner, 
but  that  didn't  excuse  George  snatching  my  oysters, 
in  order,  as  he  said,  "to  accustom  Hanbury  to  the 
frugal  fare  of  married  life." 

"  I  know,"  I  said,  "  that  marriage  means  giving  up 
many  of  the  luxuries  to  which  one  is  accustomed,  but 
oysters  aren't  luxuries,  they  are  necessities."  Where- 
upon I  recovered  the  "  succulent  shellfish "  (vide 
Little  Willy's  Natural  History)  by  main  force,  and 
left  George  lamenting. 

"  I  always  thought  you  were  going  to  get  off  scot- 
free,  Hanbury,"  remarked  Haines,  when  we  were  well 
under  way  with  the  soup. 

"You  needn't  talk  as  though  I  had  been  convicted 
of  some  crime,"  I  retorted,  nettled. 

"We  shall  hear  of  Haines  going  off  next,"  said 
Steward. 

"  There'll  be  no  fuss  about  it,  anyhow,  when  I  do," 
Haines  replied. 

"No,  that  will  come  afterward,"  I  interrupted. 
We  had  assembled  to  talk  about  myself,  not  of  what 


363  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

Haines  would  or  would  not  do  in  a  remote  con- 
tingency. The  excitement  of  seeing  George  help  him- 
self to  whitebait  with  a  fork  came  to  my  aid,  and  by 
the  time  the  meal  had  resumed  its  smooth  progress,  I 
was  in  possession  of  the  House. 

"Marriage  is  not  the  separation  from  old  interests 
and  friends  that  it  is  assumed  to  be.  The  wise  man 
makes  the  best  of  both  worlds." 

"  Yes,  my  friend,"  said  Steward,  "  but  don't  end  up, 
like  Mahomet's  coffin,  halfway  between  heaven  and 
earth.  In  a  few  weeks  you  are  going  to  marry  a 
charming  girl.  Thank  God  for  it,  and  don't  let  any 
one  of  us  to-night  say  anything  to  belittle  your  good 
fortune.  Here's  to  your  happiness  and  hers ! "  and 
although  it  was  nowhere  near  the  period  of  the  even- 
ing for  toasts,  Steward  raised  his  glass  to  mine,  and 
we  drained  our  bumpers  as  one  man. 

I  felt  deeply  grateful  to  the  speaker,  not  only  for  his 
sentiments,  but  also  for  the  harmony  he  spread  over 
the  party.  George  and  Haines  ceased  to  tease  their 
host,  and  the  host  himself  threw  off  the  shades  of 
regret  which  had  begun  to  close  over  him  and  entered 
on  a  strain  of  cheerful  recollection  which  set  every  one 
recalling  the  adventures  they  had  had  together,  and 
forecasting  the  others  they  would  share.  Steward 
excelled  himself  as  a  raconteur  and  a  wit,  while  the 
courses  advanced  and  the  wine  circulated,  till  the 
mirage  of  an  existence  without  a  care  or  a  sorrow 
floated  before  the  mind's  eye  of  each  member  of  the 
party.  Upon  this  flow  of  words  and  thought  Haines' 
proposal  of  my  health  intervened,  to  which  I  suitably 
responded  and  brought  the  speech-making  officially  to 
a  close,  when  George,  who  had  shown  signs  of  pre- 
occupation for  the  past  five  minutes,  jumped  to  his 


DECEMBER  363 

feet  and,  laboring  under  strong  excitement,  gave  the 
unconventional  toast  of  "  Lost  Opportunities." 

George  on  the  hustings  was  George  in  a  new  role, 
but,  carried  away  upon  a  wave  of  emotion,  he  made 
his  oratorical  bow  with  credit. 

"Opportunity,"  said  George,  "  makes  the  thief,  but 
lost  opportunity  marks  the  coward,  the  man  who  can 
write  *  Fain  would  I  rise,  but  that  I  fear  to  fall/  The 
host  of  the  evening" — I  bowed  in  astonishment  as  to 
what  was  coming  next — "  is  losing  the  greatest  of  all 
opportunities,  the  free  life  of  the  bachelor.  If  I " — 
George  struck  his  shirt  front — "  lose  an  opportunity — 
I  forbear  to  mention  what  opportunities — I  can 
retrieve  it.  Not  so  Mr.  Gerald  Hanbury!  Hence- 
forward he  is  not  his  own  master.  '  Vae  Victis.'  To 
him,  as  to  the  wounded  gladiator  in  the  Coliseum,  the 
thumbs  of  the  spectators  have  been  turned  down,  and 
he  must  die." 

George  drew  his  handkerchief  out  and  mopped  his 
eyes.  Really  he  was  acting  a  part  very  well,  and  a 
part  I  should  have  applauded  him  in  once. 

"  Marriage,"  he  repeated,  "  involves  the  loss  of  the 
greatest  of  all  opportunities,"  and,  proceeding,  he 
drew  a  highly  colored  picture  of  what  he  thought 
marriage  was — a  kind  of  inferno  of  discomfort,  in 
which  the  screams  of  teething  children  mingled  with 
the  lurid  blasphemies  of  drunken  domestics.  Then, 
against  this  grotesque  travesty  of  the  truth,  George 
set  up  a  rose-red  fantasy  and  styled  it  bachelorhood, 
devoting  a  purple  patch  of  rhetoric  to  a  mythical 
monstrosity  he  called  "  the  happy  bachelor." 

"  This,"  said  George,  "  was  our  host,  Gerald  Han- 
bury.  He  is  no  more.  To-night  we  stand  by  his 
open  grave,  and  drop  into  it  a  sprig  of  rosemary — for 


364  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

remembrance!"  Here  the  speaker  resumed  his  seat 
"amidst  the  thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shout- 
ing." 

Steward  instantly  stood  up. 

"  I  rise  to  respond  on  behalf  of  the  dead  man,"  he 
began.  "The  late  Gerald  Hanbury,  bachelor,  could 
he  speak  for  himself,  would  say  that  in  marrying  he 
was  seizing  the  greatest  opportunity  of  his  life.  He 
has  fought  gallantly  in  the  foeman's  ranks  till  over- 
whelmed. As  he  lies  in  his  warrior's  grave  he  de- 
serves the  reverence,  and  not  the  scorn,  of  men. 
What  are  the  opportunities  he  loses  by  committing 
the  noble  sacrifice  of  '  hara-kiri '  ?  "  asked  Steward, 
and  went  on  to  enumerate  a  grim  catalogue — the  op- 
portunity for  self-indulgence,  for  intrigue,  for  all 
the  pleasant  vices  George  had  hugged  to  himself  with 
such  unction.  The  "  happy  bachelor  "  was  stripped 
of  the  finery  George  had  wrapped  him  in,  and  shown 
to  be  a  thing  of  shreds  and  patches. 

"  The  married  man,"  proceeded  the  journalist, 
"  rises  Phcenix-like  from  his  bachelor  self — bright  and 
burnished.  And  looking  into  the  tomb  where  the 
dead  creature  lies,  he  addresses  it  thus:  'While 
breath  was  in  you  I  lived  the  life  you  bade  me,  caring 
nothing  for  the  great  moments  of  life,  passing  my 
days  in  a  fairyland  of  toys  and  trinkets,  never  raising 
my  eyes  to  the  riches  and  realities  of  the  splendid 
world.  I  regret  nothing,  however,  for  out  of  the 
child  I  was  has  grown  the  man  I  am.  Pass  away 
into  the  limbo  where  discarded  relics  and  beliefs  lie.' 
Lo  and  behold,  the  corpse  crumbles  into  dust  and  is 
gone." 

Steward  waved  his  Hand  at  George  and  Haines  with" 
a  magician's  pass.  "Vanish,  phantoms,  you  are  dis- 


DECEMBER  365 

embodied  spirits  compared  with  our  resurrected  host. 
He  has  been  down  into  the  dark  places  of  the  earth 
to  find  his  Proserpine,  and  he  stands  now  in  the  light 
of  a  sun  you  cannot  see.  For,  if  he  has  lost  the  op- 
portunity of  bachelorhood,  he  has  found  himself!  " 

"A  very  good  effort,"  said  George  irreverently, 
"  but  what's  it  all  worth  ?  " 

"As  much  as  yours,"  retorted  Steward,  following 
my  example  and  moving  away  from  the  table  to  the 
armchairs,  and  as  George  wasn't  prepared  to  put  an 
immediate  price  on  his  own  philosophy,  the  matter 
dropped.  There  we  sat  in  a  ring  talking  as  only  men 
bound  by  ties  of  intimate  friendship  can  talk,  while 
the  Old  Year  died  and  the  New  Year  was  born,  and 
hour  after  hour  struck  from  the  tower  of  the  neigh- 
boring church.  It  was  past  three  o'clock  when 
Haines  dragged  us  apart,  and  the  final  leave-taking 
began.  We  should  meet  again,  but  never  as  fancy- 
free.  The  shadow  of  "  The  Sex  "  would  be  over  us. 
Haines,  George,  Steward — each  in-  turn  gripped  my 
hand,  and,  as  they  struggled  into  their  coats,  gave 
expression  to  the  affectionate  regard  they  had  for  me. 
But  I  listened  in  distracted  silence,  as  though  their 
farewells  came  from  a  great  distance,  and  from  beings 
of  a  different  creation — finding  no  words  to  fit  the 
tragedy.  Not  till  they  had  gone,  and  were  falling 
noisily  down  the  darkened  stairs,  did  I  wake  to  a 
realization  of  the  parting.  In  that  bitter  moment  I 
nearly  ran  after  them,  saying,  "  I  am  coming  with 
you,  don't  leave  me."  But  I  controlled  myself  to 
clutch  the  mantelpiece  in  a  despair  that  defied  con- 
solation. 

Suddenly  a  thought  struck  me.  I  would  make  a 
bonfire  of  Vanities  rivaling  Savonarola's  in  Florence, 


366  TOO  MANY  WOMEN 

so  gathering  from  my  drawers  and  shelves  trie  miscel- 
laneous spoils  of  years,  I  heaped  them  in  the  fender 
and  set  them  alight.  There  were  at  least  three  hun- 
dred dance  programmes,  dating  back  to  the  Com- 
memoration balls  of  my  early  manhood,  three  locks  of 
hair  of  varying  shades,  collected  out  of  bravado  rather 
than  devotion — all  the  same  I  felt  a  pang  as  they  were 
consumed;  several  signed  photographs,  marking  as 
many  daydreams,  one,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  of  a 
barmaid  in  the  Lakes,  the  trophy  of  as  wet  a  week 
as  only  Lakeland  can  show;  a  lady's  shoe,  minus  a 
heel,  its  white  satin  surface  lost  beneath  a  coating  of 
dust ;  a  fat  packet,  tied  up  with  a  bootlace,  of  a  corre- 
spondence that  was  only  checked  by  parental  inter- 
vention, and  in  pursuit  of  which  I  displayed  more 
sincerity  than  ever  I  have  shown  since ;  and  a  vagrant 
mass  of  ribbons  and  bows,  spangled  hair  ornaments 
and  cotillon  favors — in  short,  the  complete  arsenal 
of  a  man  of  sentiment. 

As  the  funeral  pyre  of  my  romantic  self  blazed,  I 
dived  at  random  into  the  letters  to  catch  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  that  far-away  idyll.  But  the  reading  left 
me  cold.  I  could  not  recapture  the  fragrance  of  the 
rose  leaves,  and  the  passion  of  the  writer  struck  no 
answering  chord  in  me.  In  petulance  I  threw  the 
bundle  on  the  flames,  whence,  in  a  brief  time,  it 
vanished  up  the  chimney.  I  never  saw  an  affaire 
du  cceur  so  easily  and  expeditiously  disposed  of. 

Jealously  was  that  conflagration  guarded  until  not 
a  relic  of  my  bachelor  self  remained.  I  was  resolved 
to  keep  that  memory  untouched  by  matrimony. 
Audrey  has  neither  part  nor  parcel  in  the  man  I  have 
been.  The  Future  is  hers,  not  the  Past.  That  be- 
longs to  me  alone. 


A     000  737  044     8 


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